<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>If These Scars Could Speak by aleatory_fox</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24203062">If These Scars Could Speak</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleatory_fox/pseuds/aleatory_fox'>aleatory_fox</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>If These Scars Could Speak [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Armed Forces, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, M/M, Modern AU, Musical References, Poetry, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Professor Eskel, Slow Burn, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Sub Lambert (The Witcher), Suicidal Thoughts, UK Education System, Young Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:13:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>100,932</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24203062</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleatory_fox/pseuds/aleatory_fox</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian "Jaskier" Pankratz is a nineteen-year-old student at Cambridge University studying Politics and International Relations. He <em>hates</em> it, and he's at risk of being kicked out for poor academic performance. Failure would mean returning to his family home, and that's just not an option. He wants to travel the world singing about death and destiny; heroics and heartbreak. So he needs to <em>pass</em>. He takes an elective module in English Literature on love poetry, firstly because it'd piss his father off, but also because he's heard the professor has an interesting PhD student.</p><p>A passing interest begins to transform into something a whole lot more, and Jaskier finds himself faced with hard truths about life, about the society in which he lives and about himself. Society glorifies heroes and the sacrifices they make. But what happens to them when they're no longer <em>useful</em>?</p><p>
  <em>Title is taken from the song: "If These Scars Could Speak" by Citizen Soldier.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>"Show Creator's Style" recommended due to CSS/HTML Coding.</em>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>If These Scars Could Speak [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789282</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1957</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>963</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Modern Witcher AU Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Family Feud</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>All the characters in this work of fiction are modelled on the game versions, with the exception of Jaskier. The military jargon has been limited and parred back (note: the two flashback chapters are complex enough to lend realism, but not too convoluted as to deduct from the narrative) because this was never intended to be a Tom Clancy novel.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<hr/><p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Mum</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 4:20 PM</span><br/>
<span class="text"> He doesn’t mean it, Julian. You know what your father’s like.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>Jaskier typed out several replies and then deleted each in turn. He sat in the empty courtyard of the college grounds and stared into the middle distance. Three hours ago his father discovered that he was at risk of being kicked out of university; the conversation hadn’t been a pleasant one. Tempers frayed. Cruel words were exchanged. Mainly from Pankratz Senior’s end, even though Jaskier could hold his own after all these years of scathing dismissals and savage rebukes. His mother - beautiful, innocent soul - was now stuck in the middle of a feud between her husband and son. A feud that was as old as Jaskier himself. Or so it felt like. She didn’t deserve this.</p><p>So, Jaskier unlocked his phone again and reopened the message.</p><p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Mum</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 4:20 PM</span><br/>
<span class="greply">I know, Mum. Don’t worry. I won’t drop out.</span><br/>
<span class="text">I love you, Jules. Remember to use the FaceTime with me on Sunday. I miss you. xXx </span><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Jaskier smiled and pressed a kiss to his phone screen, because he missed her too. He hadn’t been home since the summer and it was now late January. Even then, it had been a fraught six weeks with Jaskier and his father being repeatedly under each other’s feet. The arguments had, at times, almost become physical. It was a relief to return to Cambridge in September, even if Jaskier now had to face the possibility that his extremely expensive private education could potentially come to nought. He blamed it on the degree. Politics and International Relations. His father’s idea, of course. The foreign diplomat who wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. </p><p>Jaskier’s entire future had been mapped from the very beginning. His entire career. Even who he should marry if murmurings behind closed doors were to be believed. A life as a civil servant. Two and a half kids. Nice mid-victorian detached house, with high stone walls to keep the riff-raff out, and a hound called Biffer. <em> Fuck that. </em>Jaskier was going to do his time, shove his guitar in its case and then travel the world. Not as an emissary though. An aid worker and a singer. Volunteer work, dreadlocks and copious amounts of weed lay in his future. Just needed to pass this damned degree.</p><p>He rose to his feet and grabbed his bag to head back into his dormitory. He promised Triss they would meet for pre-drinks before. They were going to the ADC Theatre to watch the Footlights. Triss was trying to convince Jaskier to join - “You’re so talented, Jas! You’d be so-o-o good.” - but how could Jaskier measure up to the likes of Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie? Former Footlights members went on to rule the media world. He entered the foyer of his housing block, huffed a deep sigh and forced a smile onto his face.</p><p>When he steps into Triss’ room, already crammed with at least fifteen other people, he’s greeted with a roar of welcome and a lukewarm can of Fosters is pushed into his hand. It’s going to be a good night.</p><p>***</p><p>“Your dad is going to <em> kill </em> you.” Triss giggled as she looked at Jaskier’s options form. Because of his lacklustre academic record, the university had asked him to take another module. The good news? The options were broad. They didn’t care what it was. He just needed to pass. So, obviously, the module called ‘Love and Conflict: An examination of poetic constructs through the ages’ was the default choice. Besides, Triss was halfway through her medicine degree and had decided to take it with him, because she obviously didn’t have <em> enough </em> work to do. Ambitious, hard-working types baffled Jaskier so very thoroughly.</p><p>Jaskier grinned. “What he doesn’t know won’t kill him - or me, as you have quite rightly pointed out,” he paused, then folded the form carefully and tucked it into his pocket. “I just need to pass this fucking degree. Besides, I’ve heard the Professor’s PhD student is quite a dish.”</p><p>Triss facepalmed. “Jaskier. Seriously? You’ve opted to take a module because the assistant is meant to be hot,” she paused and squinted into the middle distance, sipping at the can of diet coke in her hand as she does. “Wait, wait! I think I know who you mean.” She placed a hand over her mouth and then grabbed his shoulder. “Tall, dark and handsome, <em> but </em> has a scar running down the right side of his face. <em> Apparently </em> he’s ex-special forces. Yes, yes, <em> yes. </em>When we did plastic and reconstructive surgery, he came in and gave a talk about all the procedures, how he was injured, and recovery. He was - yes, well. Don’t go trying to flirt your way to a good grade.”</p><p>Jaskier looked wounded, hand placed over his chest, mouth agape in theatrical shock. “Me? Flirt? How very, very dare you. I shall pass this module using my natural wits and intelligence, thank you very much.”</p><p>Triss laughed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders to give him a squeeze. He liked Triss. He liked her <em> a lot. </em> They met at the orchestral society on campus - she played the violin and, predictably, was fantastic at it - and they had struck up a friendship based, initially, on laughing at how <em> serious </em> everyone else was about it all. They’d decided to drop out of the society in favour of less stringent pursuits, but their friendship had held fast. Her bright red hair, her dash of freckles and her hazel eyes gave her the appearance of someone who was permanently, irrevocably happy. Life was good to Triss, and she was determined to give it her all in return.</p><p>She’s also very - annoyingly - perceptive, and left her arm in place when he looked sombre. “You’ve had another argument recently, haven’t you?”</p><p>“Just a little one,” Jaskier smiled, big and bright, but it didn’t fool her. She raised her eyebrows, and he comes clean. “Yeah. It was pretty big. Phrases like ‘don’t bother coming home’ and ‘you’re no son of mine’. <em> Big </em> stuff. I don’t really give a shit, but I wish he wouldn’t scream it loud enough down the phone for mum to hear.”</p><p>“He sounds like such a prick,” she murmured, then glanced at him apologetically. “I mean, I know he’s your dad…”</p><p>“Oh, no, he’s a prick. World class. If there were an olympic games dedicated to being an asshole, he’d top the medal table every time,” he nudged his head against her shoulder. “Still can’t convince you to come home for dinner and let me pretend I’ve managed to bag myself a highly intelligent girlfriend with loads of prospects?”</p><p>She pulled a face, but pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You know full well I’m not your type, and, while you’re gorgeous, you’re not <em> mine </em> either,” she left the bench and shouldered her bag; she had a lecture on biomechanics and it started in fifteen minutes. “You still up for the party tonight? Streggie says it’s BYOB.”</p><p>“Does he really have to use his D&amp;D name? I mean, it’s embarrassing enough.” Jaskier pulled a face right back, overdramatic and warped; Triss laughed. “Fine, yeah. I’ll be there. I can totally make a nine o’clock lecture and stay awake through it. Especially if this PhD student is as good looking as everyone says.”</p><p>***</p><p>Jaskier sprinted down the hallway in search of the lecture theatre, ended up at the wrong end of the damn building and had to backtrack. He was fifteen whole minutes late. The party had been good. The company had been <em> better. </em> Waking up under two very attractive people, one of which really did have the nicest cock he’d ever <em>seen</em>, had been very pleasant. Until his <em> silenced </em> alarm blared at him. With 8.45am on the clock. <em> Fuck. </em> Right. Found it. He tested the door handle, gave it a wiggle and then stumbled across the threshold. <em> Loudly. </em>The lecture theatre was packed; he tripped down the first few steps, eventually finding a seat at the very edge of a backrow. The girl next to him grumbled and kicked her bag onto the floor.</p><p>The professor was in full swing. <em> Fuck. What’s the poem? </em> He did an English Literature A Level, but that all felt like a distant memory after a year and a half at university. Oh, Sonnet 18. He knew this one. Right, Mac out. Onto Moodle. Get the notes. <em> Fuck. </em> Wifi wasn't not working. As he quietly cusses at his laptop, a large hand placed a small pack of notes to his right. It appeared so suddenly, <em> out of nowhere, </em> that he jumped in his seat and the girl next to him huffed irritably again. Jaskier looked up with wide eyes into a handsome face framed in a mess of black hair; a scar knotted through the corner of his lip on the right side, only visible as he turned and Jaskier could see that it travelled all the way up past his right eye. </p><p>
  <em> The PhD student.  </em>
</p><p>The scar was <em> quite something</em>, but somehow <em> not </em> distracting. He was older than Jaskier expected. Maybe late thirties, early forties at the most, with shoulders you could just <em> hang off </em> and a chest that <em> challenged </em>his smartly pressed button-down shirt. His eyes were the most intense hazel that Jaskier has <em> ever seen</em>, the colour of <em> honey, </em> with flecks of green at the edges. Jaskier was so entranced, that when the man spoke, he startled <em>again. </em></p><p>“You’re late.”</p><p>His voice was low and it carried down the row of people next to him; Jaskier was inspected by a number of disgruntled faces, leaning forward so their glare was pointed. But he didn’t notice, because that <em> voice </em> had just settled so far inside his chest that it was still rumbling away like distant thunder. The sheer <em> presence </em> of the man. Just being <em> near </em> him felt like sinking into a warm bath. Jaskier swallowed, and stuttered through an apology. “Yes, sorry, I - uh - I got lost.”</p><p>“He notices. Don’t be late again,” he dismissed the excuse out of hand, and then glanced at Jaskier’s laptop. “The password is different.” He extended a hand to ask permission and Jaskier gestured at the machine with open palms. Instead of picking the laptop up, he <em> leaned </em>over and Jaskier’s nose was suddenly filled with the scent of his aftershave; musky, and warm, and Jaskier tried to cover another quick sniff with a sigh. <em> Holy fuck</em>. </p><p>“Done. He doesn’t record his lectures,” the assistant growled again. “If you’re late, you miss it. I only print out a handful of his slides, so you’re lucky no one else arrived late before you.” And with that, he walked down the aisle, glancing at a few students who had surreptitiously opened Instagram; he even stopped right beside one and folded their laptop down. <em> Usually they didn’t care as long as your ass was in a seat. </em>The student turned to protest - entitled and bratty as most nineteen year olds are - locked eyes with the bear of a man and mumbled an apology.</p><p>Jaskier was still staring at that broad back with an open mouth when he caught Triss’ eye. She was halfway down the lecture theatre and looking back at him with a cheeky glint in her eye, mouth open in an amused, knowing smile. He gave her a sassy flutter of the hand and gathered the notes towards him. The names of the two teachers were on the front. Professor Gerald Daniels and… Eskel Cirillo. <em> Eskel. </em> That is <em>unusual. </em> But then, Jaskier went by a name he adopted in private school when he and his buddies thought it’d be funny to learn Polish so they could talk openly about smuggling alcohol and weed onto campus, without worrying about the teachers noticing. And, of course, they’d all adopted code names.</p><p>***</p><p>“His name’s <em> Eskel, </em>” Jaskier said before sipping at the beer in his hands. He and Triss met up for lunch, as they usually did, and obviously it was gone 12 o’clock, so alcohol was on the cards. “What kinda’ name is that?”</p><p>“Not his real one. His <em> real one </em> is Esben Kelepios Cirillo,” she smirked, smug that she had managed to conduct such swift reconnaissance. “His mother is a Greek national, his father is English.”</p><p>“How? How do you know this?”</p><p>She flushed, slightly ashamed. “I may have dug out his medical records and had a little peek.” She flinched. “Please don’t tell anyone. I’d be in so much trouble, but I saw the way you were <em> staring </em> at him, and I got a little bit excited.”</p><p>“I was not <em> staring. </em> I was - he told me off, I was <em> glaring. </em> I was <em> glaring </em> at him. This isn’t secondary school. I’m not some wayward teen late for my A Level English class.”</p><p>“You <em> are </em> nineteen until June. So, technically - .”</p><p>“Ssshh. Just because <em> you’re </em> an old lady.”</p><p>She gasped in mock offence. Triss had been studying for five years; twenty-three, so hardly classed as <em> old. </em>“Well, I see someone is feeling a little stroppy today.”</p><p>“I don’t suppose you saw how old he is, did you?” Jaskier cast her a quick sideways glance. Age wasn’t usually a problem for him. The oldest woman he’s bedded <em> must </em> have been nudging her mid-forties. She was one <em> seriously </em> hot cougar though, and he hadn't been ridden like that since. </p><p>“Thirty-eight. He was medically discharged from the army four years ago,” she paused, and fiddled with her bottle. “It’s - I can’t really tell you too much, sorry Jas. It’s - it would be unfair.”</p><p>“Oh, it’s fine. I understand.” He reached across and ruffled her hair, before returning to his drink. “I’ll just have to ask myself. Won’t I?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Second Chances</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was only one thing better than the poetry lectures. The seminars. Because Professor Daniels was old, stuffy and boring, but the <em> seminars </em> were led by Eskel. And he was anything <em> but </em> boring. Two days after the initial lecture, Jaskier sat with a group of fifteen students discussing the sonnet and how Shakespeare preserved his beloved in the poem itself. The academic discussion was punctuated with humour, Eskel's analysis was poignant and relevant; every students would leave the room chatting enthusiastically about the content rather than their next booze up. A sign of a truly decent teacher. That was <em>some</em> of the reason Jaskier was becoming so... <em>intrigued.</em></p><p>He was only <em> half </em> listening when the other students spoke, because even when Eskel <em>wasn’t </em> talking, Jaskier was staring. Eskel did this very sweet crease of the brow when he was listening to someone, leaning to the side at the head of the table and he tapped his lips with the biro he brandished like a conductor’s baton when he talked. Those hazel eyes were so intense that Jaskier’s certain the student he was looking at was sweating under the pressure of sustained narrative. Then suddenly they were on him, and everyone else was <em> also </em> looking at him, and he became aware that he had been asked a question. A question that he <em> definitely </em> heard, but now his useless brain came up blank. <em> Quickly, quickly... </em></p><p>“Um - .”</p><p>Eskel tilted his head, with that little furrow of the brow again, but he was frowning now. Such a shame, because when he <em> smiled </em>it lit up his whole face and Jaskier couldn't help but smile right back, even if it wasn't aimed directly at him. Eskel repeated himself, “I asked you what you thought of Christine’s idea, Julian.”</p><p>“Jaskier.” He blurted out, and the guy next to him - Derek, complete blowhard - snorted derisively. <em> Git. </em> </p><p>“Sorry?” Eskel placed the biro down on his notebook. <em> At least he’s not making a note: fail Julian Pankratz. </em></p><p>“Uh - sorry, my name - I prefer Jaskier,” he cleared his throat. “As for Christine’s comment, I agree. The first seventeen sonnets have all encouraged the young man to have children in order to preserve his beauty; number seventeen ends with the realisation that his beloved doesn’t <em> need </em> to have children, because the poet can preserve him in rhyme. And that’s exactly what he’s doing in number eighteen. He says it - as long as men have eyes - as in to read his sonnet - then his beloved will live.” <em> And breathe.  </em></p><p>Eskel hummed, head tilted again, and then nodded. “Very good. Well,” he closed his notebook with his pen still pushed into the spine, “that concludes our seminar today. Your first essay title has been uploaded to Moodle. You have two weeks.” There was general chatter as the students packed up and Jaskier shoved his notebook into his bag, because it was essentially blank anyway. Annoyingly, Triss had been assigned a different seminar group with the professor, so he can’t even steal the notes from her. <em> Bollocks.  </em></p><p>“Jaskier,” called a low voice, and Jaskier looked up abruptly. Eskel was seated on the edge of the table <em> right next </em> to where he leaned down to pack his bag. “That was an impressive recovery. However,” his eyes drift, “please ensure you are extending your fellow students the courtesy of listening to them as intently as you listen to me. The point of these seminars is to view each other as academics and discuss as such.”</p><p><em> Oh shit, he’s seen me staring. </em>“Ahh, yes, of course,” Jaskier stood and gave one of his trademark bright smiles, “sorry, Eskel - is that alright, can I call you that?”</p><p>“That is my name.” Deadpan.</p><p>“Ahh, yes, obviously,” Jaskier looked at the floor in search of his dignity, but realised it had fucked right off with his ability to use the English language effectively, “so, um, two weeks, right? I’ll - uh - I’ll see you at the next lecture.” And he <em> walked </em>- not <em> ran - </em> from the room feeling a bit hot under the collar, because the way his name rolled out of that huge chest, and the weight of those eyes that had seen straight through him already, was too much.</p><p>***</p><p>“Triss, his name actually means God of Bears. Or Bear God. Look. Esben, often seen as a derivative of Asbjorn. His mum may be Greek, but she must’ve had some Danish and Norwegian connections too, maybe his father?” Jaskier tapped away on the library computer, pouring through pages and pages of Wikipedia articles. He had tabs open on the special forces, and the RAF, and the army, not to mention every conflict Britain had fought in the last thirty years. Not that twenty of those years were <em> really </em> necessary. Always good to be thorough. "He's a literal bear. If he's not at least bi, I'm going to throw myself into the river and end it all."</p><p>Triss sighed and punched him on the shoulder. “The essay is due in three days and you haven’t even <em> started </em> yet,” she threw her pen down on the depressingly enormous medical text she'd been reading for the last three hours and scrubbed her hands into her eyes. “I don’t think your Bear God will be impressed if you turn up late to his boss’ lectures <em> and </em> miss the first deadline. Also, teachers <em>won't </em>date students.”</p><p>“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve literally pulled essays out of my ass in three hours over a macchiato, can of monster and a bit of youthful enthusiasm. Furthermore, he's not a <em>teacher</em> really - <em> look, </em> I think I’ve found him. There’s a list of awards for bravery. Public knowledge,” Jaskier tapped the screen in triumph and pressed CTRL+F to find Eskel using his given name. "<em>Shit, </em> Triss. Sierra Leone, the Congo, Iraq, Afghanistan. My dad was involved in most of these. And I bet these are only the <em> public </em> ones. Think he was involved in Operation Desert Storm? Or the joint operations with America for Bin Laden?” </p><p>Triss rolled her eyes and stuffed her textbook into her bag. “It’s late. I’m going to bed. This was meant to be a <em> study </em> date, and all you’ve studied is your professor’s assistant. You’re an absolute <em> stalker. </em> The only times you’ve actually talked to him are when he’s been telling you off. <em> Twice. </em>”</p><p>“Coming from the woman who snooped through his medical files,” Jaskier quirked a brow and received another shove, followed by a kiss on the cheek as she departed.  “Yes, go sleep, you world saving types need all the rest you can get!” She flicked him a middle finger and stuck her tongue out; he returned to his computer screen once she'd disappeared around the corner, hands folded over his stomach. “Hmm. Wherefore art thou, Eskel?”</p><p>***</p><p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Mum</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 8:45 PM</span><br/>
<span class="text">Darling, your father isn’t entirely enthusiastic about you studying love poetry.</span><br/>
<span class="greply">Not masculine enough for him? Did he call me a filthy queer again?</span><br/>
<span class="text">You know I don’t like the language he uses. And I love you no matter what. Are you enjoying it?</span><br/>
<span class="greply"> Yes. And I’m passing all my other modules. Don’t worry, Mum. Got this.</span><br/>
<span class="text"> I know, darling. So proud. Love you. xXx</span><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p><p>Jaskier dropped the ball in a big way in those next thee days. Too many parties, a few gigs - <em> finally</em>, they’d been a bit few and far between recently - and an absolute tidal wave of essays due for his International Relations professors meant that his English Literature essay fell to the bottom of the pile. The night before, at approximately 3am in the morning actually, he stared at the empty screen and panicked. <em> He couldn't fail </em> . So he did something really, <em> really </em> stupid. He bought one. And he submitted it.</p><p>Two days later, he received an email from Eskel.</p>
<hr/>
<p></p><div class="window">
  <p class="topbar"></p>
  <p class="textfield">From: e.cirillo@educ.cam.ac.uk</p>
  <p class="textfield">Subject: Sonnet 18 Essay Submission</p>
  <p class="textfield">To: jpankratz19@educ.cam.ac.uk</p>
</div><div class="ebody">
  <p>Dear Julian,</p>
  <p>Please attend my office at 3.00pm this afternoon. I’ve checked your timetable and have noted you are free. This is not a request.</p>
  <p>Kind regards,<br/>
E. Cirillo</p>
</div><p class="buttonbar"></p>
<hr/><p>He arrived five minutes early. The PhD students got an office linked to or close to their supervisor. In Eskel’s case, his was directly linked to Professor Daniels'. Jaskier knocked, and a low voice called from somewhere inside - “Come in” - so he nudged through the door and stepped inside. Predictably, the room was <em> heaving </em> with books. Floor to ceiling bookcases crowded every wall, with a couple of filings cabinets shoved in between creaking oak panels. A couch was pushed under the window with a pillow and a blanket folded at one end - neatly; an indicator that perhaps Eskel spent time in his office long after working hours were over.</p><p>Eskel wasn’t in the room. The door to Professor Daniels’ office was ajar, and Jaskier could hear low voices from beyond it. There was something else that drew Jaskier’s attention. A picture in a black frame sat on a middle shelf between a book of poetry by Lord Byron and another poet Jaskier has never heard of. It contained five men in army fatigues with rifles slung across their front. All smiling. He spotted Eskel straight away - black hair, intense eyes visible from the desert background - but he didn’t have any scars. He had one arm slung around another man of the same height, just as broad, they could’ve been <em> brothers</em>. Their heads tilted together, almost like they were - “My former regiment.”</p><p>Jaskier jumped and span to find Eskel standing behind him. The man moved like a bloody ghost, and he looked at the photograph now with an unreadable expression. “Oh, uh - you were in the army then?” Jaskier feigned ignorance, because he knew his knowledge probably bordered on obsessive by this point.</p><p>“Hmm, no. I just have a very feral tabby cat.” He indicated his face, completely deadpan for all of about two seconds, and then Jaskier saw the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and allowed himself to smile.</p><p>“Right, you - uh - wanted to see me?” <em> Your email didn’t make it sound entirely positive.  </em></p><p>“Summer as a literary device is used to mean the life of the mistress that should be safe from fate. Fate, in this case, is portrayed by the use of scorching sun and rough winds.” Eskel indicated the chair in front of his desk and took a seat behind it, his fingers twined together over his chest. Jaskier looked at him blankly. “Your essay.”</p><p>“Oh.” <em> Oh shit more like. </em> “Well, I’m glad it held enough gravitas for you to know it off by heart without even <em> reading </em> from it.”</p><p>“Jaskier, I wrote that essay during my second year as an undergraduate here,” Eskel murmured. “In 2013, while I was stationed in the Helmand province. I received my grade for it via satellite phone.”</p><p>Jaskier’s mouth opened and closed, before he finally settled on deflection. “How did you do?”</p><p>“Very well,” Eskel tilted his head, brow furrowed. “You realise something like this is the end. The university needs to preserve its academic integrity. It’s instant dismissal, all current credits null and void.” </p><p>The panic squeezed around Jaskier’s heart with ice cold fingers. Jaskier had stumbled his way through life on his wit, cunning and intelligence; usually more of the first two than the latter. It'd worked for him. He’d never been caught out. Until now. “I -,” he could feel the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, but swallowed them hard, “- so, where do we go from here? Is there paperwork I have to sign, or - ?” This was it. This was the end. He’d go back home to Hertfordshire with his tail between his legs and a part-time job in the local Co-Op, if he's lucky, with daily reminders from his paternal figure of just how useless he truly was.</p><p>“I haven’t told anyone yet,” Eskel said quietly. </p><p>“You - you haven’t?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Eskel seemed to consider this; he tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, then his eyes wandered across to the framed image they had inspected earlier. “Pankratz. Your father is Alfred Pankratz, correct?”</p><p>“Yes,” Jaskier almost added the word ‘unfortunately’.</p><p>“Hm,” Eskel rubbed his chin and then pushed himself from his chair. “Here’s the deal, Jaskier. And it’s a one time offer. You can resit the essay. However, I want two additional essays. The first will be on a sonnet or poem of my choice to be submitted by the end of the term. The second will be on a topic of your choice, to be submitted to me by the end of the year. It doesn’t necessarily have to be in literature. It can be on anything. For both essays, you and I will have weekly tutorials to monitor your progress. Speaking to some of your other professors, organisation and prioritisation are clearly areas of personal development for you. I can help with that.”</p><p>Jaskier couldn’t speak. His mouth opened several times, but clicked shut without a word. He wasn't sure <em> what </em> to be most shocked by. There was so much to choose from. The fact that Eskel seemed to know his father’s name; the fact that Eskel was offering him a literal <em> lifeline</em>, or even the fact that he’d been <em> asking around </em> his other professors about him. He must have sat there for too long, because Eskel looked at him impatiently.</p><p>“Well?”</p><p>“I - yes, I’ll do it.” Jaskier glanced at the professor’s door. “Does he - ?”</p><p>“As I said, I’ve told no one. We were discussing the Rugby scores.” Eskel raised an eyebrow again. “This is below board. I’m putting my neck out for you. If you fuck up, then you take me down with you. Do you understand what you're signing up for?”</p><p>“I -,” Jaskier wasn’t sure what to say. Usually he can find words in even the most dire of situations, but there weren’t any for this, except, “yes, I won’t let you down. You have my word.”</p><p>“Hmm. Does your word have any value?”</p><p>“Yes.” Jaskier clenched his teeth. “It does.” </p><p>“We’ll see,” Eskel sat against the edge of his desk. “Our meetings will take place every Friday at 3pm right here. Don’t be late.”</p><p>***</p><p>“So, you let him off?” Letho stared at Eskel, propped against the bar next to him. These weekly meetings of theirs bordered on masochistic, but they continued on as they ever have. They’d found a bar that <em>wasn’t</em> full of students yet, and while Eskel didn’t necessarily <em> enjoy </em> Letho’s company, they had a shared history that at least made it familiar. And that was <em> good enough. </em></p><p>“I set him two more essays, and he has to attend extra sessions with me every week. Do you even listen to me half the time? That hardly constitutes letting him off.”</p><p>“Hmm. Not really, that’s why we split, remember?” Letho finished his beer and waved the barman over for another. “Still think you shoulda’ kicked him to the curb. If someone finds out, you’re fucked. You’ll be worse off than Lambert.”</p><p>Eskel sighed and leaned against his knuckles, elbow propped beside his drink. He was still on his first beer and it was already warm. “He just reminds me of - just his - .”</p><p>“You’re such a bleeding heart,” Letho thumped Eskel on the side of the arm with one huge fist and Eskel grabbed the edge of the bar to prevent himself slipping off the stool. “Well, whatever. Engineering department just let three students go for misconduct, so you’ve probably saved us a helluva lot of paperwork. I swear, they’re getting shitter every year.” </p><p>“Three? Fuck, that’s a lot.” Eskel necked some of his beer, grimaced and pushed it away.</p><p>“Shots?” Letho gestured at the top shelf liquor.</p><p>“No. Because I’ll get fucked off my face and end up in bed with you, and that never ends well, does it?” </p><p>“Depends on whose perspective you take.” Letho wriggled his eyebrows, and then one those big hands stroked back over Eskel’s hair. He always got amorous when a bit tipsy, and Eskel just weathered it with mild impatience. “Why’d I let you go, little bear?”</p><p>At one time that pet name had been endearing. When he was safely wrapped up in Letho's massive body with one of those huge hands carding through his hair. Comforted by a man that understood what he went through; someone who had been through the same and chosen a similar path of recovery. Not now though. Now it was used as a barb to antagonise him. Eskel scowled, “Nope, we’re not doing this tonight, Letho. Good night.” </p><p>“Ahh, yes. I remember,” Letho called after his retreating back, and bellowed the next bit so that the entire pub could hear. “Because I’m not Geralt.” He laughed at the middle finger he received and then admired Eskel’s backside before it disappeared out into the street. “Barman, I’ll have those shots.” He pounded his fist on the bar and the poor lad fell over himself to provide.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Fall for You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Don Juan,” Jaskier squinted at the open text in front of him; it was the very same book that had sat propped against the framed picture of Eskel's regiment. “This poem doesn’t seem to have an end. It goes on for an eternity.”</p><p>“Byron did always claim it was unfinished,” Eskel conceded, seating himself in the chair next to Jaskier; he’d moved it around from behind his desk to remove some of the formality. “It’s written in groups of eight lines of iambic pentameter that follow an ABABABCC rhyme scheme, do you know what that’s called?" </p><p>“Ottava rima,” Jaskier sighed. “You’re expecting an essay on this by the end of term.”</p><p>“Yes, in addition to the resubmission of your paper on sonnet eighteen,” Eskel leaned back. “The question for <em> this </em> poem is: how does Byron present his ideas on love? I would imagine you’ll see much of yourself in the protagonist.” He tried to stem his smile, pressing his lips together until the urge faded. Since agreeing to tutor Jaskier on a one-to-one basis, he’d done a <em> little </em> bit of prying into his character. It hadn’t taken long to discover a young man with a hopelessly romantic streak, who seemed unsatisfied with simply <em> one </em> relationship. Don Juan was the perfect poem for him to explore the complexities of love as an emotion beyond the superficial. </p><p>“You’re an absolute slave-driver,” Jaskier murmured, caught the raised eyebrow, and sighed in defeat. “Fine. Yes. I understand. I’ll meet both deadlines.” He pulled his notepad out of his bag and rustled through until he found a pen to accompany it. “Right, <em> enlighten </em> me, dear teacher. I’m ready.” </p><p>Eskel couldn’t help but grin now. Such a huge amount of sass behind a young veneer. Almost reminded him of - “Right, well, let’s start with Byron’s appraisal of the other poets of his time - have you read any Wordsworth? Southey?”</p><p>“Didn’t Southey write a biography for Lord Nelson?”</p><p>“He did,” Eskel blinked. “Do you know much about nineteenth century history?”</p><p>“Oh I - it’s silly, really. I’m into heroes and heroic representation,” Jaskier rested his elbow on the desk and propped his chin against the heel of his hand. “You know, heroics and heartbreak, all that. Nelson is a good case study. What with his mistress in Naples, his faithful wife at home, then he goes and loses an eye and an arm, and finally dies a heroic death at Trafalgar. His representation in Southey’s biography is very interesting though. Completely by-passes all his flaws, including the huge, long bout of depression he goes through when he loses his arm. I think it says more about what a hero was meant to be at that time than it says about Nelson himself.”</p><p>There was a long moment of silence, and Jaskier tapped his pen idly against the blank page of his notebook. “I’m… impressed.” Eskel said, finally. And suddenly his decision to scrape this disaster case from the pits of academic ruin felt a little more validated. He’d seen a glimmer of it in their seminars. The way that Jaskier was able to follow different ideas at the same time, to contribute to discussion even though he’d been doodling in his notebook or sketching down song lyrics while others spoke. There was a brilliant mind beneath that scruffy mop of brown hair, but it was at risk of being left to stagnate unless someone seized hold of it.</p><p>“Yes, well, I’m not just a pretty face, darling,” Jaskier twirled his hand with a grin, then realised what he’d said, and to whom, and his face fell. “Sorry. I - uh, I meant - thank you.” He glanced up briefly, relieved when he caught sight of the flare of amusement in those - quite frankly, criminally - gorgeous eyes. “So, you were saying? Wordsworth and Southey.”</p><p>“Yes, Byron tries to distance himself. Comes across as humble, saying that he couldn’t possibly compare to the great poets of his time. But really he’s being a sassy bitch and is lining them up for a real lampooning.”</p><p>“Lord Byron. A… sassy… bitch. Got it.” Jaskier noted it down on the top line of his page, and Eskel laughed. It’s a low, hearty sound from deep in his chest. Jaskier <em> liked </em>that laugh. He liked it <em> a lot</em>, and throughout the rest of the session he endeavoured to earn it as much as possible. In the background though, his mind had latched onto Nelson. He’d always been one of Jaskier’s favourites. There was something <em> human </em> about Nelson. He was a fastidious self-promoter with more vices than a man of his station had any right to, but his contemporaries elevated him even when he was unable to command a ship during his recovery. A hero that had made the ultimate sacrifice. </p><p>But, as Jaskier listened to Eskel, watched him smile and laugh, he couldn’t help but wonder. What if Nelson <em> hadn’t </em> been able to go back? What if Nelson had finished in 1797? Before Copenhagen, before the Nile, before <em> Trafalgar. </em> All the battles that had turned him into a legend. Would he have his statues? Would he have his endless biographies? Would Southey have even <em> bothered</em>? Nelson’s death had immortalised him. But what if… he’d just… stopped?</p><p>The hour went by far too quickly, and the alarm on Jaskier’s phone beeped him out of his ‘thought coma’; this was Triss’ term for when his mind was so obsessed with his internal monologue that he failed to acknowledge the real world around him. Jaskier had completed several pages of notes under Eskel’s guidance even with his private musings, and he stuffed them into his bag. “Eskel, uh - can I ask you a question? It’s… well, once I’ve asked it, you can just tell me to jog on, but…”</p><p>“Go ahead.” Eskel stood and shuffled his chair back to the right side of the desk.</p><p>“You said you were in the army. Everyone says special forces, and - uh - my dad always says they don’t let the SAS go easily,” he smiled slightly at his joke. “So, um, can I ask what happened?” He knew it was forward, was prepared to be told to fuck off and already swivelled a foot to turn.</p><p>“Students do like to gossip, don’t they?” Eskel grumbled as he flopped back into his chair now that it was in front of his computer. “Friendly fire is what happened. I’ll see you at the next lecture, Jaskier.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, and Jaskier regretted asking. Too soon. He should have been more patient, but Eskel was just too <em> interesting. </em> How did one go from being a soldier to a financed PhD at Cambridge? As Jaskier walked out of the office, he cast another quick glance at the photo frame, memorising another of the faces. </p><p>***</p><p>Jaskier finished his sonnet eighteen essay quickly, and Eskel gave it a passing grade. That <em> hurt. </em> He was used to achieving excellence with little effort. Eskel returned the essay to him at the beginning of a lecture, placing it silently on his keyboard along with a pack of notes. Barely scraped a 2.2. <em> A pass. </em> Fine. Deserved. Jaskier would do <em> better </em> starting with Don Juan. Despite his misgivings, Jaskier became rather obsessed with Lord Byron’s epic. The more he read, the more he started to feel like DJ was a bit of a kindred spirit. Particularly in his preference for a married woman as his first love affair.</p><p>He sat with Eskel in his office the following week, and they discussed Julia at length. “So, is Byron positing that it is possible to have sex without love, but not love without physical attraction?” Eskel asked. This time there was tea and biscuits, and Jaskier chewed thoughtfully on a custard cream.</p><p>“I think so, yes,” he leaned forward and pointed at one of his annotations; he’d gone to the university book shop, a place he hadn’t yet visited since arriving a year and a half ago, to buy his own copy. “Julia views her relationship with her husband as a type of oppression; he discusses how she is stuck between wanting Don Juan, but also wanting to adhere to society’s expectations of her.”</p><p>“What does Lord Byron think of her?”</p><p>“He admires women who use autonomy and search for happiness; she gives in to temptation, and satisfies her desire even though society would call her a slut, and Juan plays the role of the savior, because he takes her away from the solitude of her marriage. Also, he goes on to challenge this idea that <em> men </em> can seek sexual liberation without taboo, but women are <em> chained </em> by the patriarchy. He calls out that bullshit.” Jaskier could tell that everything he said was hitting the mark; Eskel was watching him intently. There was that furrow of the brow, but no frown, only a faint smile. Those intense hazel eyes looked bright, and Jaskier just couldn’t look away.</p><p>“Perfect,” Eskel chewed a hob-nob thoughtfully. “And what do you think of Julia?”</p><p>“I think…” Jaskier trailed off. He sipped at his tea as he considered. “She wasn’t given a choice. I mean, Alfonso was <em> fifty</em>. I bet he couldn’t even get it up. No one wants to be chained to someone so much older than they are. Byron says she’d want someone under thirty, I’d have to agree. She has a right to the full experience of love. And if she doesn’t get it from her ancient husband, she should go elsewhere. Byron’s right. Love is so precious, and humans, all humans, should be free to use their time to seek happiness.” </p><p>Eskel sat back and folded his arms. Jaskier was <em> prepared </em> for their discussion. His copy of Don Juan had been annotated, highlighted and underlined within an inch of its life, and his ideas had been carefully formulated. He <em> wanted </em> to impress. And he had. So Eskel thought he’d cut him down a peg. “Interesting. So, thirty is the cut off point then. After that you’re a sexual has-been?” </p><p>“No, my best lay was f-- ahh, well, would you look at the time,” Jaskier caught the amused smirk that Eskel was trying to hide behind his mug, but thankfully his phone beeped to signal the end of the session. “I’ll - uh, see you at the seminar then. We’re looking at the Dark Lady from now, right? From one hundred and twenty-seven?”</p><p>“You’ve read the curriculum specification.” Eskel looked surprised.</p><p>“Well, what can I say? My teacher has inspired me.” Jaskier winked, and left. And Eskel blinked at his back. Was that - <em> had he just been flirted with?  </em></p><p>***</p><p>“I can’t explain it, Triss,” Jaskier stretched his legs out on the perfectly groomed grass of St John College’s courtyard. It was lunch-time, which meant <em> Triss</em>, sandwiches and gossip. Winter was turning into spring, and it was now warm enough in the early afternoon to bask. If only for a little while. “I just… the way he talks about love, and sex, and… he’s just so <em> open </em> about everything, but I still don’t feel like I can <em> see </em>him yet, y’know?”</p><p>“Well, he’s probably very aware that you’re his student. Professional boundaries an’ all that.” She chucked her book aside and flopped back to rest her head on the flat of Jaskier’s stomach. “Wonder why he chose that poem in particular.”</p><p>“I don’t know, but I like Lord Byron, and I like Don Juan. They’ve got their shit together,” Jaskier grinned. “Did I tell you Eskel legitimately used the term ‘sassy bitch’? I wrote it down.”</p><p>“Yes, you’ve told me about - hmm - I think this will be the thirtieth,” she chuckled. “So, you still gonna’ do your gig tonight, or you too busy swatting for Eskel?”</p><p>“Don’t you mean for our essay due in next week?”</p><p>“Did I stutter?”</p><p>“Alright, Bender,” he <em> thwapped </em> her on top of the head. “Yeah, I’m still doing it. The pay’s pretty good. Dad’s shrunk my allowance again. Punishment for joining the Dead Poet’s Society as he calls it.”</p><p>“Oh God, I’ve got images of Eskel on the table in your seminar now,” she lifted her hands towards the sky. “Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary.”</p><p>Jaskier laughed, and nudged her away as he rolled onto his front. “Well, I’m not carrying him out on my shoulders at the end of term, because he’s the size of a literal tank. I’ll see you tonight then. Enjoy dissecting your frog.”</p><p>“Rude! I know he’s a cadaver, but you still shouldn’t use derogatory names. Frenchmen are people too. Even dead ones.”</p><p>“Oh, stop. It’s me.” Jaskier pressed a kiss to her cheek, grabbed his bag and headed off to his lecture on the United Nations’ humanitarian efforts during the Ebola crisis. He thought about Eskel and Lord Byron for the entire thing and quickly downloaded the notes off Moodle at the end.</p><p>***</p><p>The set was going well. Little bit of Ed Sheeran, Lewis Capaldi and some Shawn Mendes thrown in for good measure. It was all fairly innocuous, tooth rotting stuff, but the bar was fairly indie and his audience were swaying, bobbing and singing along. The sound system was good - no distortion on the microphone - but he’d expected a fairly good set up; they had an upright piano on the stage behind him. And it was <em> tuned</em>. Generally indicated a good gig space. He was working through a rendition of <em> Photograph</em>, with Triss swaying away in the front row with her Budweiser held aloft in appreciation as she mouthed along with the words, when a familiar figure in a red button-down shirt walked through the door</p><p>Jaskier was a damn professional, so he didn’t miss a note, but watching Eskel walk across the bar while he was <em> performing </em> was panic-inducing in a way he could’ve never predicted. <em>Why was he nervous? </em>Furthermore, Eskel's companion somehow made Eskel look <em> small. </em> A broad, muscular skin-head with hands the size of Jaskier’s chest. They laughed and joked at the bar, and Eskel snagged his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans to pay… and then looked ‘round to the stage. The recognition flickered across his face as surprise; he dipped his head in greeting, before nudging his companion and indicating Jaskier with a jut of the chin. The goliath turned with his beer in hand and slouched against the bar with a cock of the head, murmuring something that Eskel acknowledged with another nod.</p><p>And suddenly, Jaskier wasn’t playing for his wider audience anymore. He was playing for Eskel. Because, for some stupid reason, he wanted to show off his true passion. <em> This. </em> This is what I want to do, and what I want to be. <em> And I’m good at it. </em> Sheeran came to an end, the publicans applauded, and he shuffled through his music. “Ahh, final song folks,” a good-natured groan rose, with a few chants of ‘more’, which was nice, “it’s a shame I’m not a duet, there’s a nice piano bit to this one.”</p><p>The giant standing next to Eskel elbowed him so hard that the beer almost fell from his hand. Eskel glared at him, only to receive another shove. <em> And suddenly Eskel was walking over, and then he was standing right there. </em>“If you’re serious, I can fill in,” he indicated the piano with a quick flick of the eyes, “if not, I’ve just made a tit of myself in front of the entire pub, so I’ll just go crawl into the gutter and die quietly. After murdering Letho. Slowly, painfully, probably with a beer mat and a bottle opener.” He thumbed over his shoulder at his companion, who lifted his bottle in toast.</p><p>Jaskier grinned, bit his lower lip, and then passed the sheet music over. He knew this song well anyway. “Sure thing. I’ll count you in.” </p><p>Eskel took the papers and seated himself at the piano. He pressed a few keys to check the tuning, and then some chords to warm himself up before glancing over his shoulder; Jaskier beat his knuckles against the body of the guitar and Eskel began. The start of the song was <em> all piano</em>, with Jaskier singing over the top as those callused fingers drifted expertly across the keys. <em> “</em><em>The best thing 'bout tonight's that we're not fighting. Could it be that we have been this way before? I know you don't think that I am trying, I know you're wearing thin down to the core.” </em></p><p>Triss was <em> losing her shit </em> at the front - her mouth open in shocked excitement, her cheeks ruddy - which was really unhelpful, so Jaskier looked over her head to the back of the room. Usually he was good at making eye contact - a few well placed winks, some cheeky grins - it made the set better, but his heart was thundering in his ears, and it was taking all of his willpower to just <em> sing</em>. Still just the piano, <em> “But hold your breath, because tonight will be the night, that I will fall for you - over again, don't make me change my mind. Or I won't live to see another day, I swear it's true, because a girl like you is impossible to find; you're impossible to find.” </em></p><p>Jaskier twisted on his stool so he could see Eskel from the corner of his eye. Those big hands were effortlessly graceful across the ivory, and Jaskier almost missed his cue to start strumming along because of them. Eskel was only briefly glancing at the sheet music, mouthing along with the words, foot bouncing below the stool. <em> Natural. </em> Jaskier's hands leapt into action through instinct, and he fell in alongside Eskel’s melody. <em> “This is not what I intended, I always swore to you I'd never fall apart, you always thought that I was stronger, I may have failed, but I have loved you from the start.” </em> Another chorus, another verse, but Jaskier had forgotten about the rest of the room, because Eskel glanced up at him with those eyes of honey and Jaskier felt his heart flutter in a way it never really had before. As he picked through the final few bars, he felt breathless. The song finished with a fading guitar solo and they got a standing ovation. Jaskier leapt to his feet and bowed with theatrical aplomb; Eskel glanced over his shoulder, but otherwise stared straight ahead at the wall, his shoulders hunched. As soon as the applause had died down, he left the stage, giving Jaskier a nod before heading out into the beer garden.</p><p>Triss reached out to grab his guitar. “Go. Now. Quickly. I’ll get packed up.”</p><p>“You’re a goddess.” Jaskier weaved his way through the mess of people, tables and chairs. Letho watched, eyes narrowed.</p><p>When he stepped outside initially, Jaskier couldn’t see Eskel through the clouds of vape and cigarette smoke. Eventually he glimpsed a red shirt in a far corner and padded over. “Hey, that was amazing. Where did you learn to play like th - ? Are you alright?”</p><p>Eskel looked <em> stressed. </em> His face was tight, his pupils narrow, and his fists clenched on the table in front of him. As he looked up and realised who was talking to him, he forced it <em> way </em> back down and smiled. “Ah, it’s - um - when I was in recovery after being discharged, the doctors were into music therapy, so we all got to learn an instrument. They wanted us to sing as well, but I wasn’t very good at that,” he heaved a deep sigh, and Jaskier got the impression it was actually a steadying breath. “You’re very good. I - no one mentioned you were musically inclined.”</p><p>“It doesn’t really come up in a Politics and International Relations degree,” Jaskier remarked, wryly. “But, um, thank you. I wasn’t expecting a duet tonight, so I probably coulda’ done with some rehearsal time. Is that another professor with you, or - ?”</p><p>“Oh, Letho’s with the engineering department. He’s another ex-forces. I got him the job when he was discharged two years ago. Does mechanical work for them, sets up practicals, that kind of thing.”</p><p>“Ahh, cool,” Jaskier paused, tapped his palm against the table, and sensed that Eskel needed some space. “I’ll - I’ll see you tomorrow morning for the seminar then. I’ve got to go grab my kit and head off with Triss. There’s a house party, and - .”</p><p>“Of course. Stay safe.” Eskel gave another one of those tight smiles that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Jaskier waved at him, when in reality he wanted to give the guy a bloody hug. As he entered the pub again, Letho was walking towards him, but instead of stepping to the side for an easy pass, he stood dead in Jaskier’s path.</p><p>“Jaskier, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah. Eskel said you’re Letho, right? Work at the university.”</p><p>“Mm,” Letho considered him thoughtfully, and then leaned in <em> way </em> too close. Jaskier could smell the beer on his breath, and see the fillings at the back of his mouth. “Word of warning, lad. That’s damaged goods. You’ll want to steer well clear.” And then he walked into the garden, beer pressed to his lips. Jaskier watched after him, stunned. </p><p>“What was that about?” Triss blinked at him when he finally arrived back at her table. She meant Letho.</p><p>“Dunno. He’s creepy as fuck. Let’s get to the party. I need a drink. That was… I dunno what <em> any </em> of that was.”</p><p>Later that night, while everyone else around him was getting blind drunk, Jaskier googled ‘music therapy’ and ‘ex-forces’ on his phone and found a series of articles. All of them told the same story.</p>
<p></p><div class="letter2">
  <p>
    <em>...the current narrative review describes the practice of music therapy and presents a theoretically-informed assessment and model of music therapy as a tool for addressing symptoms of PTSD… </em>
  </p>
</div><p>Jaskier sat down at the dining table, ignoring the drunk girl trying to drool over his shoulder, and kept reading, his beer forgotten.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Fall for You (Acoustic) by Secondhand Serenade.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Piano Keys</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was something off the following morning. Quite frankly, Jaskier wasn’t used to waking up on a Thursday morning <em> without </em> a hangover, but that wasn’t the problem. Eskel. <em> Eskel </em> was the problem. The seminar was somewhat muted compared to its usual flare. Their leader was quieter; he didn’t smile as much and his quips were slower off the mark. Like he was wading through water to get to them. The others didn’t seem to notice, and answered Eskel’s questions enthusiastically. Their poems were all annotated, highlighted; they’d all been captivated by their seminar leader and his passion for these ancient poems. Suddenly, a seventeenth century poet, with his neck ruffles and his dodgy hairdo, was somehow relatable. Translated into the modern day by a man that lived and breathed the lessons the poems had to share.</p><p>Jaskier couldn’t <em> help </em> but be drawn in by the damned sonnet. He’d read it over again this morning, and his brain had instantly returned to the previous evening. Sonnet 128. <em> For fuck’s sake. </em> Shakespeare watches his dark lady playing the clavichord - or something similar, Jaskier isn’t that clued up on instruments with keys, but it’s essentially a bloody piano - her back swaying; she’s captivated by the melody, and Shakespeare by her in turn. He envies the keys under her fingers, yearns for them, but in the end concludes that the keys can have her hands, as long as he can have her lips. Jaskier had practically brained himself with the book and received some odd looks on the bus.</p><p>
  <em> Fuck off, Will. Seriously. </em>
</p><p>Jaskier contributed to the discussion. He talked about those hands and watched Eskel’s fingers curl into his palms and disappear beneath the table to rest in his lap. His face was drawn, and every time he turned his head, Jaskier could see two dark bruises on the curve of his neck; they were mostly obscured by the collar of his shirt, but not entirely. There was no question as to what they were. Jaskier had given enough of them. Someone had marked Eskel up real good last night, and today he’s feeling it. Worse still, they’d done it in a place that was intimate, perhaps obeying a request for discretion, but still just visible. They wanted people to <em> see. </em></p><p>The rest of the class filed out once dismissed, but Jaskier lingered, packing up his bag slowly and faffing around with the clasps. “I really enjoyed playing with you last night,” he paused. “The piano, I mean.”</p><p>Eskel smiled. “Yes. I usually only play with one other person, and he’s a bit - well, temperamental feels a bit too generous.” With a trace of laughter in his voice, he turned his back to grab his grey pea coat and pulled it around his shoulders; Jaskier noticed that he stood the collar up and briefly averted his eyes.</p><p>“I was wondering whether you’d like to do it again sometime. Not like in front of a crowd, but maybe in the music department? They let me use their rooms to practice when my house complains about the noise.” Jaskier shifted his satchel onto his shoulder, and watched Eskel carefully. </p><p>“Hmm. Maybe. Perhaps we should get your essays out the way first? I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll have a chat about Haidée.” Eskel chucked his bag onto his back and exited the seminar room with a brief wave, and Jaskier was left standing there thinking of strong, graceful hands dancing across piano keys.</p><p>***</p><p>“What can you tell me about PTSD?”</p><p>Jaskier peeled open the Gingster’s chicken and stuffing sandwich in his lap, and Triss hummed. “What do you want to know? Symptoms? Causes? It’s not my area of expertise, but I did a mental health unit, just in case I wanted to pursue it later.” Triss was into the heart. She wanted to be a cardiovascular surgeon, and Jaskier was one hundred percent sure she would make it.</p><p>“Well, I figured the cause is trauma. On a grand scale. Tell me about the symptoms.” Jaskier had read <em> a lot</em>, but sometimes it was good to hear it from someone. Having an expert explain it provided some clarity.</p><p>“It has a fairly big scope. Someone with PTSD can exhibit loads of different, little things. But, as far as I can remember, the main ones are like… re-experiencing, so flashbacks, nightmares and even physiological symptoms like sickness. There’s also avoidance or emotional numbing, so the person will either distract themselves with work and hobbies, or just try not to feel anything at all. Finally, hyperarousal, so feeling on edge. Doesn’t necessarily have to be all the time, then there’s like… a laundry list of stuff attached. Depression, alcoholism. A lot of the case studies we looked at had rituals of self-sabotage too. Like they were punishing themselves. It’s a shitstorm,” she paused and glanced across, Jaskier was sinking into one of his thought comas, so she shoved him. “This is about Eskel, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Yeah. He looked really sick this morning. Like… exhausted.”</p><p>“Well,” she paused, had an internal argument in the space of three seconds, and then sighed. “I - he has to undergo checks every year, Jas. He’s safe to be around. The university has a responsibility to protect - .”</p><p>“Oh f -, I don’t give a shit about that. I’m just… worried. He high-tailed it away from applause last night, and this morning he - hmm.”</p><p>“Don’t worry yourself about it. I’m sure he has a network of family and friends there to support him. I mean, he can’t be that much of a disaster if he’s studying for a degree <em> here</em>,” she packed her lunchbox away - bamboo, sustainable ingredients, Triss cared for the environment in a way Jaskier didn’t have the brain space to - and shouldered her bag. “See you later, kiddo. Gotta’ go learn about the lungs and shit.” She ruffled his hair and marched off.</p><p>***</p><p>Thankfully, Eskel <em> looked </em> better Friday afternoon. Completely back to normal. Jaskier noted that the blanket and pillow had moved from one arm of the couch to the other, but were still folded neatly. Eskel arrived with the tray of tea and biscuits, and Jaskier placed his notes on the desk. </p><p>“Tea, dash of milk, three sugars,” Eskel placed the mug down. “Would hate to be your dentist.”</p><p>“I brush!” Jaskier bristled in mock offence, and Eskel smiled with a shake of the head.</p><p>“Right, let’s start with Don Juan. How’s he represented in this transition phase?”</p><p>“Well, I was surprised, actually,” Jaskier mulled over the plate of biscuits, and then realised suddenly there were only <em> two </em>kinds. Custard creams and hob-nobs. Eskel had noted that he only ever ate the first and left everything else. “Uh - well, at the close of the first canto he’s thrown naked from his first love, and because of the shipwreck basically falls completely naked into the next one. It’s like Byron’s poking fun at him.”</p><p>“Mm, strange that,” Eskel dunked a hob-nob in his tea and held it there - playing with fire, biscuit-tea was not a pleasant experience - and scooped it out just in time. “Almost like he’s learned nothing from the experience.”</p><p>“Yeah, he’s as unconcerned with this next disastrous love as he was with the first. At least this one’s not married. I - I feel like Byron has less patience with her though. We were meant to feel sorry for Julia, trapped by this marriage, but I get the feeling we’re meant to be more critical of Haidée, even though he tells us not to be.”</p><p>“For this section of the poem, Robert Southey, who was the poet laureate at the time, made Byron the leader of the satanic school of poetry,” Eskel swirled his finger around the rim of his mug, and Jaskier’s eyes were inextricably drawn straight to it. <em> Piano keys. </em> “Juan’s relationship with Haidée isn’t treated with the same amused irony, is it?”</p><p>“No, Byron essentially says she forgot all her Christian principles in a ‘crisis of love’, but he’s very careful to construct a woman who knows the difference between right and wrong; she’s been brought up in the Greek Orthodox Church. Then he makes it sound like she just didn’t think. And he has her die in the most savage way, along with Juan’s unborn child… like… on the one hand, we’re meant to be less critical of her because she didn’t manipulate her conscience like Julia, but… man. Brutal.” Jaskier read down over the stanzas containing her death. She coughed up blood from a vein that burst after seeing an injured Juan, fell into a coma, went mad and died.</p><p>“What is Haidée’s draw to Juan? In the very beginning?”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“She finds him lying naked on a beach: deemed herself in common pity bound, as far as in her lay, 'to take him in, a stranger' dying-with so white a skin,” Eskel recited the poem without even looking, and that always left Jaskier slightly in awe. “So, what’s the draw?”</p><p>“It’s… the draw is of the flesh,” Jaskier responded. “She’s sexually attracted to him, so saves him and starts this perfect affair. She keeps it a secret because her dad’s a psychopathic pirate lord. It all goes to shit when he comes back alive and finds out.”</p><p>“They weren’t meant to grow old but were meant to die young. They’re not concerned with the passage of time. Their existence is a perfect one. They’re like children and aren’t meant to fill a place in a real world. Perfectly happy while they’re together. Does such a love exist? Or is it an ideal?”</p><p>“It’s -,” Jaskier leaned back in his chair. “- it’s an ideal. Love is imperfect, because loving someone means accepting all their faults as well. Do you think that’s why Byron kills this affair so savagely? It’s so unrealistic that it can’t last.”</p><p>“Perhaps,” Eskel watched Jaskier carefully. “When we’re young, we’re looking for the ideal, perfect romance. All flowers, all the time. That’s why Haidée rejected all her suitors. She was looking for the perfect man. The one.”</p><p>“So, what? Getting old is about settling for second best?” Jaskier folded his arms, unconvinced.</p><p>Eskel smirked. “No,” he sipped his tea. “Getting old is about learning to love a real person, not an ideal. Now, let’s talk about Juan’s time in the slave market and why he rejects Gulbeyaz after readily being hunted by two other women.” </p><p>They talked for the rest of the session about a wounded, mourning Juan and his complex relations with Gulbeyaz, but, yet again, Jaskier’s mind was wandering as it always did in Eskel’s presence: to Eskel himself. The bruises on his neck had faded since yesterday, but he was still wearing a collared shirt. Jaskier thought about <em> that </em> romance. Was it a romance? There weren’t any photographs, but then Eskel only had one personal item in the whole office: his regiment. Jaskier was enjoying these sessions; he actively looked forward to them, thought about what he was going to say, how he would say it. He thought about the Dark Lady too. Thought about how Shakespeare watched her from afar as he was watching Eskel. He hadn’t read much further ahead, but he really hoped Billy got his girl, because Jaskier was starting to think his attraction to Eskel was developing beyond the superficial of ‘his body is amazing let me lick it’. </p><p>“Right. Time’s up,” Eskel stood and collected the empty mugs onto the tray. “Any questions?”</p><p>“Have you ever been punting?”</p><p>Eskel blinked. “What?”</p><p>“Y’know, down the Cam.” Jaskier shoved his notebook into his satchel.</p><p>“I’ve been living in Cambridge for four years and you ask whether I’ve ever been punting down the River Cam.”</p><p>“Yeah, alright. <em> Anyway</em>, do you want a change of scenery? Cambridge is really beautiful in the spring. Seems like a shame to be cooped up in the office on a Friday afternoon. Why don’t we grab a punt and talk about Catherine the Great with a thermos? I’ll bring the hob-nobs.” </p><p>Eskel had his back turned. Jaskier couldn’t see his face. But by the dip of his head, the way his shoulders stooped before solidifying into a perfect line, he could tell there was an argument going on inside his head. “Alright,” Eskel straightened and turned back, one of those bright smiles sprawled across his face. “I’ll meet you by the Bella Italia in town. We’ll pick one up from there. Don’t let your analysis slip though, I won’t be easily distracted by pleasant scenery.”</p><p>“Yes, boss,” Jaskier grinned and offered a quick salute. “Cool, I’ll - I’ll see you in the lecture next week and I’ll confirm the booking with you.”</p><p>Eskel watched Jaskier leave, and then pinched the bridge of his nose. <em> Fuck. </em></p><p>***</p><p>It was Sunday afternoon. Just after lunch time. That meant FaceTime with Mum.</p><p>“Jules! You’re looking so good!” She beamed at him through the screen, her blue eyes studying his face closely, drinking in every feature to help her survive the following week without him at home. “How <em> are </em> you? Are you meeting all your deadlines?”</p><p>“Hi Mum,” Jaskier grinned right back, shifting the computer on his lap as he folded his legs beneath him. “I’m all good. I got a First in one of my most recent Politics essays and I’m also doing really well at my English Literature module. The professor thinks I might be looking at a First there too.”</p><p>“Oh! Baby! I’m so proud.” She grasped either side of her face, and then leaned off screen to pet the spaniel that barked at her feet, excited by her sudden outburst. “How’s Triss?”</p><p>“She’s good. Saving the world, as usual.”</p><p>“You know, you should bring her back to Hertfordshire for a visit. She can stay in one of the spare rooms, your father and I would love to meet her, and perhaps, you know… she’s <em> very </em> pretty.”</p><p>“Mum,” Jaskier gave her ‘the look’, and she sighed, hands lifting apologetically. A short silence stretched out before them, and he twiddled his fingers above the keyboard. “There is someone I’ve been - is dad there?” He lowered his voice.</p><p>“No, he’s out shooting, love. Clay pigeon, don’t worry.” </p><p>“Oh, good,” he cleared his throat. “Well, there’s a guy… he’s, umm, he’s really nice. Intelligent, and mature. I’ve - uh - I’ve got a kind of date. Well, it’s not <em> really </em> a date. We’re meeting more to discuss poems, but - I really quite like him. He’s a little bit older, but he’s a gentleman, and - .”</p><p>“Oh, Jules,” she sighed. “Well, what’s his name? I’ve never seen you look so bashful.”</p><p>“Eskel,” he smiled at her look of adoration. His mum was the only person in the world that really understood him; she loved him no matter what, and as a result he told her <em> everything. </em> Well, apart from how many notches he had on his bedpost, she was far too innocent for all that. “Yeah. His name’s Eskel.”</p><p>***</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Wolf</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 3:20 AM</span><br/>
<span class="greply"> Alright?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Yes. Final operation went well. No casualties.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Good. Home?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Couple of weeks. Few loose ends. Have to do a handover.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Ok. Did you get Ciri's school picture?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Yes. Thank you. Not sure how I feel about the haircut. </span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Pixie cuts are in at the moment. It looks good.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> I’ll defer to your expertise. Speak soon. </span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply">Be safe.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>Eskel typed out ‘miss you’, and then deleted it. Some things didn’t need to be said.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Poetry in Motion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier managed to find a decent booking for 2.30pm online, and printed off the receipt with the time to show Eskel. The lecture felt like it went on for several hours, but eventually Professor Daniels droned to an end and Jaskier bounded down the front. Eskel had been dealing with some IT issues. Despite being one of the most well-renowned institutions in the world, it appeared Cambridge was still in the dark ages in terms of technology. Jaskier waved at the professor as he hobbled up the stairs, and then yanked the receipt out of his pocket.</p><p>“Here, I booked it,” he smiled as Eskel reached out to take the crumpled paper from him, but his grin quickly faltered when the man reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “Oh, no. Seriously. It’s my treat.”</p><p>“Jaskier,” Eskel frowned, deeply. “Not happening. You’re a student, and your father’s cut you off. Take the money.”</p><p>“No, I said - wait, how do you know my father’s cut me off?"</p><p>Eskel opened his mouth and then clicked it shut. <em> Caught. </em> He rubbed the back of his head and turned to gather his notes together, tidying the mess of paper and stationary into a neat stack. “Professor Daniels asked me to monitor the welfare of his students.”</p><p>“Alright, why’s Derek off at the moment?” Jaskier folded his arms, eyebrows raised. He wasn’t angry. Far from it. This was a <em> good </em> thing. As long as Eskel <em> didn’t </em> know why Derek was off; his nan had died, he was attending the funeral. It meant that Eskel had been making inquiries. You didn't do that if you were completely uninterested, right?</p><p>Eskel didn’t know why Derek was off. “I - uh,” he swallowed, shoved his paperwork into his satchel and grabbed his coat. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried into your personal circumstances. I just needed to be sure about who I was offering my PhD to on a platter.” It sounded like a fair enough excuse, but Eskel didn’t look at Jaskier’s face to confirm it. Instead, he took his wrist, turned it over and forced the banknotes into his palm. “Take the money. Buy more hobnobs, I don’t care, but take it.” </p><p>“That’s a lot of hobnobs,” Jaskier murmured, but curled his fingers around the cash anyway. He walked with Eskel to the back of the lecture theatre and stepped aside like a gentleman so he could exit first. “So, uh, do you want to meet at Bella Italia still, or -?”</p><p>“I’ll pick you up. St John’s College, right? I’ve got a permit for parking in town. Save the walk.”</p><p>Jaskier beamed. “Sure. Well, see you then. Looking forward to chatting about the Ruskis.”</p><p>“Hmm.” Eskel hummed, and walked away, but Jaskier saw the glimmer in his eye. Amusement, with a trace of fondness. His target was guarded, but Jaskier was certain that he was getting somewhere. He wanted to see inside that big heart properly, because he <em> knew </em> it’d be brimming with affection. No one talked about love in the way that Eskel did without having so much of it to give. <em> And look at that ass, for fuck’s sake. </em></p><p>***</p><p>“I can’t believe you’ve convinced him to go punting.” Triss stared at him over her latte. “I mean, it’s a date, right?”</p><p>“Not really. It’s a change of scenery, and he insisted on paying for it, even though I booked it.” </p><p>“It’s - just be careful, Jas. I mean - you’re still his student until the end of term. Once the module finishes, then perhaps you could explore some possibilities, but -,” she sipped her coffee, and then pulled her blueberry muffin towards her. </p><p>“I’ll be careful. I just want to get to know him better. Spending time with him makes me want to be a better person. He’s just so… <em> nice. </em> Like you, but bigger, with a dick.” He grinned, Triss laughed.</p><p>“Have there been any more episodes like the pub, or - ?”</p><p>Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “Why?”</p><p>She sighed. “People with PTSD are… a lot of work, Jas. Like, not in a bad way, they totally deserve love and to be looked after. But if you hurt them, or you handle something the wrong way, it can do <em> a lot </em> of damage.”</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“You know what it’s supposed to mean. Don’t play dumb,” she gave him an impatient frown, and then shoved some of the cake into her mouth, chewing it down before she continued. “Just make sure that if you do decide you want a slice of the Eskel-cake after your module’s finished that it’s a cake you’re willing to commit to, capiche?”</p><p>“Yes, grandma.” Jaskier rolled his eyes, and then yelped when she kicked him under the table.</p><p>***</p><p>The weather was absolutely perfect that Friday. Jaskier jammed his thermos and two packets of biscuits - custard creams and hobnobs - into his satchel and waited outside the gatehouse for Eskel. He wasn’t sure what he expected in terms of transport, but he couldn’t help but blink when a grey Audi A5 rolled up and Eskel leaned across to open the passenger door. </p><p>“Wow. I didn’t realise PhDs paid so well these days. Think I might rethink my career plans.” Jaskier grinned as he pulled his belt across and clipped it into place.</p><p>“Mm. It doesn’t. I get a generous pension for the face.” Eskel checked his mirror and pulled into traffic. The drive wasn’t long, but it provided Jaskier a fantastic opportunity to investigate. A man’s car said a lot about the type of person he was. The Audi was… <em> immaculate. </em> Everything was buffed and polished; even the dash, where dust usually gathered over time, was completely clean. The scent was fresh - like spring grasses - and the radio station was set to Radio 4. They were discussing Trump’s middle eastern peace plan and how he had orchestrated its presentation to minimise early criticism. Eventually, Eskel changed the channel with an irritable flick of the wrist. Moonlight Sonata tinkled through the perfectly balanced sound system.</p><p>“Don’t agree?” Jaskier asked, trying to discreetly investigate the backseat. Empty. Damn it. Usually people had folded newspapers or <em> something. </em> It was like everything Eskel had was deliberately minimised; void of his personality. His office, his car - what would his flat look like? Or maybe he had a house? Would it empty too? Yet, Eskel was so <em> full. </em> He wasn’t an <em> empty </em> person. Or didn’t come across that way. <em>Quiet,</em> yes, but interesting, with ideas and passions, and - </p><p>“I’ve looked a lot of objectively evil men in the eye, Jaskier. Men that would strap a bomb to a child and send them into a shopping precinct because there’s an American chainstore in there,” Eskel murmured. “They lack humanity. I don’t see humanity in his eyes either.” </p><p>“Heavy,” Jaskier murmured.</p><p>“Sorry, no - I - please don’t take my political beliefs on board. That was unfair of me.”</p><p>“Oh, no. I’m not a fan of him either. Just - sometimes, when we’re talking about love, Shakespeare and the meaning of life all the time, I forget what you did before.” They were out of the traffic now, winding their way through town. Eskel overtook an entire gaggle of cyclists and then pulled into a side street.</p><p>“Hmm.” Eskel placed his hand behind Jaskier’s headrest as he reversed into the parking space; completely unnecessary since he had parking cameras and sensors, but apparently didn’t <em> trust </em> them and ignored the screen. It was a short walk from one side of the main road to the next, and soon they were climbing into a punt; a long, narrow boat with a flat bottom driven by a pole pushed into the river bed. The driver stood on the back end to drive and steer; it required balance and some upper body strength.</p><p>“Do you want to - ?” Eskel offered the pole, and Jaskier put both his hands up.</p><p>“No, no. We’ll end up tangled in a willow tree being eaten by swans if I do it. All you, big guy.” </p><p>They chucked their bags into the centre of the boat and Jaskier seated himself at the far end; he’d be moving backwards, but he wanted to <em> watch </em> Eskel push them along the river, especially after he took his jacket off and revealed a red t-shirt underneath. It sat close to the skin - not deliberate, just a standard level of tightness - but Jaskier could see the outline of his pectorals and the press of his abdomen when he checked over his shoulder for more punt traffic before pushing off from the side. </p><p>This was the first time Jaskier had seen Eskel outside slacks and a shirt. Now, that wasn’t a <em> bad </em> sight on its own, but there was something about the faded jeans and combat boots combination that really <em> did things </em> and he stared in silence for several minutes, trying to be discreet. Well, until Eskel cleared his throat. “Are you going to get your books out?”</p><p>“Oh, yes, sorry,” Jaskier dragged his bag towards him and fished around for his copy of Don Juan and the notes he’d carefully folded around the correct pages. “Right.”</p><p>“Okay, so tell me about Catherine the Great as Byron presents her.” Eskel pushed the pole carefully into the river bed and guided them into the centre, passing it across his hands to the otherside to straighten their trajectory.</p><p>“Before we begin, I have a request, actually. More of a demand,” Jaskier began, feeling brave. “Since you seem to know the ins and outs of my personal life, I’d like to ask a question for every single one I answer. To even the field. Nothing massively intimate. Just… you know, stuff.”</p><p>“Stuff?” Eskel raised an eyebrow.</p><p>“Yeah, stuff,” he paused. “For example, I know that you were in the SAS, and they work in four-man units, so, what was your specialisation? Questions like that.”</p><p>“Hm,” Eskel considered it, dropping the pole low in his hand as they drifted around a group of tourists that had managed to get themselves stuck together against the river bank. “Alright.”</p><p>“Well?”</p><p>“Canto nine first. How does it begin?” </p><p>Jaskier sighed. <em> Fine. </em>“Well, it starts with a critique of Wellington. At the time of the poem’s writing, he’d just won the Battle of Waterloo and has accepted all the lavish rewards that came with military victory. Byron thinks he’s a pillock and compares him unfavourably to Epaminondas, who saved Thebes, and Washington, who freed his country.”</p><p>“Good, and - ?”</p><p>“Ah ah. My turn,” Jaskier raised a palm, and Eskel looked at him sternly, but waved a hand to continue. “Specialisation. What was it?”</p><p>“Signals,” Eskel said simply, and then when Jaskier looked blank, “I was in control of all the communications. Radios, incoming and outgoing traffic, morse code, burst transmissions and tapping into enemy communications too. My secondary specialisation was as a linguist.”</p><p>“What la - ?” He broke off when Eskel tilted his head, and then waited patiently for the next question on Don Juan.</p><p>“Where does Byron’s dislike of Wellington come from?”</p><p>“Byron was a liberal, and Wellington was a Tory. His feelings toward Wellington were politically motivated, but went beyond party differences too. Wellington threw his influence on the side of the <em> status quo </em>and reaction, and for Byron that meant an alliance with tyranny, and an attack on freedom.” Jaskier paused, watching Eskel for a reaction, and when he just kept steadily driving them down the river. “How many languages do you - ?” He paused, and reworded. “What languages do you speak?”</p><p>“Arabic, southern and northern dialects, Mandarin, German, Russian, a smattering of Krio and a few Tamal phrases,” Eskel adjusted his stance on the end of the punt. “Can I have a hobnob and some tea, please?”</p><p>“Yes,” Jaskier leaned forward and pulled the biscuits out, and then Eskel opened his mouth to ask another question. “Um, I’ll think you’ll find you’ve used your round for tea.” He knew he was being cheeky, but clearly Eskel appreciated it, because Jaskier could see the smile from the corner of his eye. The punt was moving along at a good pace, and Eskel drew the pole in to sit down and eat his biscuit.</p><p>“What are the names of the four others in your photograph? The one in your office.” </p><p>“The dickhead giving the middle finger in the front is Lambert,” Eskel slurped some tea, grimaced appreciatively, and continued. “Behind him to the left, Coen. He wasn’t part of our team, but he was a friend of ours on base. Next to him is me, then Geralt, and far right was our patrol leader, Vesemir.” </p><p>“You used the past tense for two of them, are they - ?”</p><p>Eskel raised a hand abruptly, silencing the question. “How does Byron present Catherine the Great?” His voice was completely level, but he was inspecting his tea quite closely.</p><p>“Well, he presents her as really young to make her one of Juan’s love interests. In 1790, which is when the poem’s set, she would’ve actually been sixty-one, but Byron’s taken her back in time to gloss over the fact that Juan’s just binned off a woman of twenty-six.” Jaskier fell silent and watched Eskel through his eyelashes; he was waiting for the next question, but there was a tension to his shoulders and his head was tilted down; he didn’t want to talk about his regiment. “Why do you wear so much red?”</p><p>“What?” Eskel blinked and looked up.</p><p>“Red. You wear a lot of it. Why? And don’t just say it’s your favourite colour, more detail, please.”</p><p>“Well, it <em> is </em> my favourite colour,” Eskel mumbled, and then shoved the rest of his hobnob into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before he continued. “Nature uses red to mean stop. Back off. Dangerous. I guess it’s my own warning system. That, and I spent sixteen years of my life in green or black; I wanted a palette change, darling.” He made the campest gesture with his hand, accompanied by a little jerk of the head, and Jaskier guffawed, receiving a bright grin in response. It was a clear deflection, but the mood lightened, so Jaskier allowed it. Eskel returned to the Czarina of Russia. “What else is wrong with Byron’s representation of Catherine?”</p><p>“He presents her as a sensualist, who is extravagantly generous with her lovers, and completely glosses over her role as a leader and a politician. She did so much to westernise Russia; she was a shrewd diplomat, absolutely ruthless sometimes. He just doesn’t do <em> any </em> justice to her personality, her will or anything like that.” Jaskier chucked a custard cream towards a swan, smacked it in the head by accident and grimaced in apology. </p><p>Eskel sighed. “Well, you just attacked one of the Queen’s birds, gonna’ have to kill you now.” Absolutely deadpan for all of about three seconds, and then he smirked at the brief glimmer of worry in Jaskier’s eyes.</p><p>“You’re such a git,” Jaskier chuckled. “Right. My question… uh, well, since you just did one of the finest hand flutters I have <em> ever </em> seen. Sexual orientation?” It was forward. <em> Really </em> forward. Perhaps borderline disrespectful in some ways, but then he’d always said that respect didn’t make history, and he was hoping to make plenty of that with Eskel, <em> so.. </em>.</p><p>“I’m gay.” He threw a hobnob at Jaskier, who picked it up with a pretend-baleful glare before dunking it into his tea. Eskel continued, “So, we have an issue here then. Byron seems to love women with autonomy, that make their own decisions, and yet he has the opportunity to dissect one of the greatest women in history… and fudges it, why?”</p><p>“The whole poem isn’t… planned. He says it himself at some point, I think. Well, at least laments his failing imagination, but the amount of tangents he goes off on, like stopping halfway to tear a strip off of Wordsworth, and Wellington. It’s… the whole thing reads like a bit of a manifesto in places. It all feels a bit, ‘well, I’ll write a bit on this, and now back to Don Juan’.” Jaskier considered his next question carefully, pushed it aside, and then recalled it for further scrutiny. “Being gay in the military, how did that work?”</p><p>“It didn’t,” Eskel murmured. “Until 2016, a ‘homosexual act’ was grounds for dismissal from service under the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act because of two little statements. I mean, otherwise it was all fine, from 2008 we could even attend gay pride marches in uniform if we wanted to, but laws don’t change attitudes. So, to use an American phrase; don’t ask, don’t tell. My patrol all knew. We were like brothers.”</p><p>“Huh.” Jaskier mused over his tea, waiting for the next question, but it didn’t come. “Don Juan’s life in Russia doesn’t agree with him, so he heads to London next. I think when I talk about Catherine the Great, I’ll compare her to Julia and think about how that relates to concepts of love in the piece.”</p><p>“A good idea.” Eskel conceded. “Now, did you get me to do all the hard work because you’re lazy, or because you don’t know how to punt?”  </p><p>“Umm, a bit of both, actually. The last time I tried I ended up in the water after clinging briefly to the pole trying to stay upright.”</p><p>“A student of Cambridge that can’t punt. Disgraceful. Come here,” Eskel pushed himself to his feet and stepped up onto the end of the boat again. “Quickly. Or you’re swimming back.”</p><p>Jaskier blinked, and then scrambled forward. The boat swayed a little as he rose to his feet and he splayed his arms out to balance himself. Eskel swivelled his hand to indicate that Jaskier should stand in front of him, and passed the pole into his hands once he was in place. “Don’t worry about falling in. I’ve got you.”</p><p><em> He definitely fucking did. </em> Jaskier could feel the solid chest behind his back, and the muscular arms that wrapped around him briefly to position his hands properly on the pole were… <em> definitely something. </em>There was that aftershave again too; deep, and warm. The kind that made you want to bury your face in the chest and neck wearing it and fall asleep to the sound of a firm heartbeat. Jaskier swallowed, took a deep breath, and spoke in a level tone. “Right. Wide stance, pole in hand. Now what?”</p><p>“The first mistake people make is keeping their hands in the same place,” Eskel murmured. “Push the pole against the river bed, and walk your hands back up it. Keep the motion smooth to avoid jerky changes of direction - that’s it, well done.” He slid his foot back as Jaskier wobbled, steadying with a hand on his shoulder. “Keep your feet wide, but don’t be afraid to move them to regain your balance.” </p><p>The lesson continued for another ten minutes or so, Eskel correcting Jaskier’s hands with the lightest touches and quietly murmured instructions, until finally it was time to turn the punt around and head back. Eskel handled the logistics of redirection expertly, before handing the pole back to Jaskier and flopping into the boat to finish the rest of the hobnobs. The <em> entire packet</em>, in fact. Jaskier scoffed, “How are you not the size of a house?”</p><p>“I run twelve miles almost every morning and visit the gym four times a week. I earn my biscuits.” Eskel smirked, shoved another one in his mouth, and folded his arms over his chest as he chewed smugly.</p><p>“Yeah, alright. Fine.” Jaskier rolled his eyes. The most exercise he did was running to lectures he was late for. He wasn’t <em> unfit </em> per se, certainly none of his lovers had ever <em> complained</em>, but looking at Eskel sprawled there in the bottom of the boat, his t-shirt riding up just a little over the flat of his stomach as he swivelled to pick up the thermos, Jaskier reasoned he could probably find time to visit the gym.</p><p>It seemed like no time at all before they were returning the punt, stepping out onto the street again and approaching Eskel’s Audi. “Hm. That was a good change of pace.” Eskel mused quietly as he ducked into the driver’s side.</p><p>“I’m full of good ideas. I thought you’d realised that by now.” Jaskier chirped as he buckled himself in.</p><p>“Remains to be seen. I haven’t read the finished essay yet.” A wry smirk, and Eskel returned them to the main road. They were around five minutes into the journey back towards the college when Eskel’s phone rang. Connected to the Bluetooth, it came through as a restricted number. He answered it. “Eskel speaking.”</p><p>
  <em> “Eskel Cirillo?”</em>
</p><p>“Correct.”</p><p>
  <em> “This is Constable Doherty calling from Cambridge Police Station. You’ve been named as a contact for Lambert Murphy. We need you to come in and post bail.”</em>
</p><p>Eskel sighed, head falling back against the rest behind him. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” He hung up, clicked on the indicator and pulled a swift u-turn in a side road. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. I’ll drop you off straight after, but I can’t leave him for longer than necessary.”</p><p>Jaskier blinked. “Umm, it’s fine. I don’t have anywhere to be so.”</p><p>“I also apologise in advance on Lambert’s behalf.” They drove the rest of the way in silence, with only Vivaldi’s ‘Spring’ playing quietly in the background. Eskel’s hands gripped so hard on the steering wheel that his knuckles bleached white.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Quick readers survey - would you like flashbacks, or not? </p><p>I used them in "Piece Me Back Together" and they seemed popular, but it's the same literary device. I have them written, so it's down to you guys, really. :3 One is definitely planned for after Geralt's arrival.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Hero of War</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Flashback: Wolf Team Two Zero are on their last operation in Helmand Province before rotating home. It goes wrong. </p><p>[Note: Sad; very, very sad].</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a simple extraction. </p><p>An Al Qaeda lieutenant had been tracked to a compound in central Helmand. The jump went well, even with Lambert’s stupid fucking soundtrack blaring in the plane seconds before.  Who even listened to dance music anymore? Lambert, apparently. Vesemir had given up maintaining operational discipline immediately before a jump years ago as long as the order wasn’t radio silence. It pumped them up. Adrenalin was good for when they hit the ground. ‘Tsunami’ was slightly more tolerable than ‘Through the Fire and Flames’, which was Geralt’s preferred choice. He’d never asked Eskel. Probably something by Dolly Parton. If Vesemir had to choose, it’d be ‘Tsunami’ every time.</p><p>“Pallas Cat to Fluffykins,” Lambert was tailend Charlie as they crept through the deserted streets. “Pallas Cat to Fluffykins.”</p><p>“<em>What</em>?” Geralt growled through the coms and Eskel bit down <em> really </em> hard on his smile, meeting the icy flash of Geralt's blue eyes as they glared at him anyway. Geralt <em>knew</em> when Eskel was smirking by instinct alone. Lambert flatout refused to use Geralt’s actual callsign, but if his address was ‘fluffy-something’ - bunny, goose, teddy - then it was meant for Geralt. Not to mention that last operation Lambert was a Caracal Cat. That changed too.</p><p>“Your butt looks good in those combats. Oh, and I saw a scope at your four, keep low.” He wouldn’t have joked if the danger had been immediate. Lambert didn’t fuck around with people’s lives. Just with Geralt’s lack of humour.</p><p>Geralt ducked behind the crumbled remains of a building and flashed a signal that <em> definitely </em> didn’t appear in the operations manual. Lambert blew him a kiss over his rifle. He’d joined the wolf pack five years ago to replace Varin when he retired. Young, but perhaps the best demolitions specialist the service had ever trained. Joined the army, accelerated through mechanical and electrical engineering degrees and passed special forces training with flying colours. There wasn’t a vehicle he couldn’t sweet talk into working for him, or a bomb he couldn’t defuse or - his preferred course of action - detonate in a ‘safe and controlled’ manner. </p><p>Eskel liked him a lot. Vesemir tolerated him for his skill. Geralt regularly told Lambert to fuck off in the mess hall, but secretly liked him too. This was their last operation before they rotated home. A couple of months off with family and friends. Some time to heal from this absolute clusterfuck of a conflict. They’d seen things - <em> done </em> things - that had pulled them to the very edge of their tolerance. Tempers and nerves were fraying. <em> Just one more operation. </em></p><p>“Radio silence from now. We’re moving inside their communications capabilities.” Eskel murmured, and clicked off the radio at his waist. Vesemir lifted his right fist and motioned forward and they continued their stealthy approach. If all went well, then they could slip inside, bag their man and slip out without <em> any </em>collateral damage. OC had said there were wives and kids in the vicinity. This had to go smoothly.</p><p>Vesemir moved his right hand down and they crouched immediately; he  lifted it to his ear, palm forward and Eskel moved to his side, head tilted forward, listening. Voices. They were faint, but he could pick out a few words. When Vesemir looked at him, he translated: his right hand walked two fingers across his left palm, and then raised towards his mouth, pinched together. <em> Going for food. </em> Nothing useful. Vesemir leaned to glimpse the campfire. His left hand patted his right forearm, and then pointed a finger gun in the air just above his shoulder. <em> Enemy had rifles. </em> </p><p>Geralt shuffled back, found them an alternate route, and they managed to slip into the building. They found their man asleep next to two of his wives, with four children on mats nearby. Vesemir and Eskel placed their hands over the mouths of the women until they calmed, while Geralt yanked the insurgent out of bed and knocked him out with a blow to the back of the skull. Lambert dealt with the children. He was the best with kids. Had one of his own, and another on the way; Geralt had a kid too, but he didn’t get to see her that much. </p><p>“<em>Calm down, we won’t hurt you." </em>Lambert spoke softly in Arabic, lifted his hands to his head and made bunny ears, poking his tongue out. The youngest giggled. The three others looked slightly less frightened. He glanced at the two women who stared at him in terror, “<em>Calm?</em>"They nodded and Lambert indicated that Vesemir and Eskel should release them. The children fled into their mothers’ arms and he placed a finger to his lips. “<em>Please stay silent." </em>Usually the women the kids didn’t even want to be there, sometimes they <em> did</em>, then things got difficult. They had to take the chance. Shooting innocents was not what they had signed up for.</p><p>Nearly home free. They dragged the limp dick asshole they’d come for out the window. And then it all went to shit. Eskel turned the radio on his hip and immediately American chatter flooded the airways. <em>[Predator drone cleared for strike at coordinates </em><em>31.3636° N, 63.9586° E</em><em>].</em> <em>What the fuck?</em> He twisted the dials on his pack and slapped his ear when he caught Geralt’s eye. <em>Radios on.</em></p><p>“Air strike. American. Run. Run.” He switched through the different wavelengths as he ran, shouting the same message. “This is Wolf Team Two Zero. We are on the ground. Call off drone. Call off drone. I repeat, we are on the ground.” </p><p>Vesemir snatched the insurgent from Geralt and hauled the dead weight over his own shoulder. His wolves sprinted away from the building without cover and were spotted immediately by surrounding patrols; the bullets ricocheted off brick, stone and sand. Eskel continued to scream down his radio, but received only static in return. The Predator drone, barely visible with the naked eye because it flew so high, dropped its payload. </p><p>The first bomb obliterated the building they’d just left. Dynamic targeting, they called it. Someone high up in the American food chain had been told the insurgents were on the move and made a snap decision; predictably, the British had played their cards too close to their chest. The head didn't know what the ass was doing. The second exploded in their path. Eskel felt hellfire rake across the right side of his face - shrapnel, he learned later - and collapsed to the floor in agony. It had torn through his vest as well. A thousand tiny shards burning in his chest. No sight in his right eye. He could feel the blood dripping down his neck, but still he threw himself onto his front and clawed through the sand towards his rifle.</p><p>Eskel could see them. The walking dead. Not everyone was killed instantly during an air strike. Some took longer. They burned and they screamed. Nothing could save them. They were already dead, just didn’t know it yet. Lambert could see them too. He could see the faces of the children he’d just left behind in that building. He’d told them they wouldn’t be hurt. Geralt was several metres behind, crouched next to Vesemir.</p><p>Lambert appeared at Eskel’s side. “C’mon, Bear. I’ve got you.” He yanked him from the floor and bodily over his shoulders. Adrenalin gave him the strength, the bigger bulk shifted over one side so that his right arm could still access his rifle. Eskel heard Geralt’s voice. It would be the last time for a year.</p><p>“Get him out of here. Go.” </p><p>“Wolf, come on, not leaving y--.”</p><p>“Go now or I’ll have you court martialed. That’s a fucking order.”</p><p>The only reason Geralt would be giving orders was if Vesemir couldn’t. He was gone.</p><p>The air strike had attracted mobile patrols from the surrounding desert and they were now zoning in on the wreckage. Geralt raised his rifle to his shoulder and opened fire as the first wave crashed through the ashes and the smoke; he was wounded, Lambert could see the blood leaking from underneath his uniform, but Eskel was bleeding out too. His weight grew heavier as his consciousness left.</p><p>Lambert carried Eskel the two miles to the exit vehicle that should have carried the five of them away; four wolves, one captive. He threw Eskel onto the backseat and climbed into the driver's side. A GAZ Tigr - thank you, Russia - so purred to life as soon as he turned the key. He slammed the accelerator to the floor and skidded out of the sand onto the dirt track. When he stumbled through the gates of the joint NATO compound, medics were at his side in an instant. Only when they forced a gauze to his face did he feel the wounds in his head. They would leave two scars down the right side of his face. Nothing compared to what Eskel would endure.</p><p>Two static walls had saved their lives by absorbing some of the explosion. There was no word from Geralt.</p><p>***</p><p>Eskel and Lambert went home. Geralt stayed with Al Qaeda. </p><p>The army refused to show his remaining team the hostage video.</p><p>After the first week, Keira kicked Lambert down to the sofa because he kept startling awake and screaming in the night. </p><p>She said he needed help. </p><p>He said he didn’t.</p><p>He lost it in the third week and made Mason cry when he bellowed across the house. Unbridled fury. His son had been playing loudly with his Barbies. Kid stuff. Lambert begged forgiveness and Mason hugged him eventually. </p><p>It wouldn’t be the last time.</p><p>The fifth week, Keira told him to leave. Enough was enough. She chucked his bags at him. He left.</p><p>
  <em> What if you become physically violent, Lambert? It’s just shouting now, just nightmares, but what if - ? </em>
</p><p>Lambert picked up his first bottle of whiskey two weeks after that.</p><p>Three months later he re-deployed because no one noticed his decline. Eskel was still in hospital. </p><p>Lambert missed the birth of his daughter by four days.</p><p>***</p><p>It was a complete shitshow. A routine patrol had turned into civilian hostages, gunfire and screaming. Lambert stood in the middle of a decimated shopping mall, and a young woman walked towards him. He could see the wires from the vest poking out from under her burqa. She begged for help, “<em>Help me, help me." </em>He could hear Letho bellowing in his earpiece and yanked it free.</p><p>“<em>Calm." </em> He raised his hands to her, rifle slung around his back, and moved forward slowly. From what he could see it was timed, not remote. “<em>I need to touch." </em>She nodded. He could see the tears streaming from her eyes behind her face covering. She didn’t want to be here. This wasn’t her choice. They chose women and children because they were less likely to be shot. </p><p>Lambert moved some of her robes out of the way and found the timer. His hands weren’t as steady as they used to be. In fact, they shook more than they didn’t these days. And as he looked at the twisted metal and smattering of wires, his brain just short-circuited. He couldn’t… <em> couldn’t remember. </em> He’d done this a million times. It was… this. <em> No. </em> He reached for a wire and drew back. His heart thundered in his ears, sweat stung his eyes, if he got this wrong, she’d die. It would be his fault. She’d die and it would be on him. <em> Couldn’t - think. </em></p><p>Letho had stopped screaming in his earpiece now because he was sprinting up behind him. Lambert blacked out when the rifle butt clocked him on the back of the head and Viper carried him free. The bomb went off in their wake. </p><p>Because of his distinguished service, they dropped the charges of disobedience. Letho vouched for his good character. So did the rest of his unit. But he was done. With a chest full of medals, Lambert returned home to Britain to try and scrape his life back together. After he begged on his hands and knees, Keira allowed him to see his kids once a week under supervision. They were his reason to live.</p><p>Lambert had joined the armed forces at sixteen, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to see the world and make a difference to those that needed him most. He left the armed forces at twenty-eight, broken and empty.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Title inspired by "Hero of War" by Rise Against.</p><p>Wolf Team Two Zero are named in memory of the SAS patrol Bravo Two Zero who were left to die by the British Armed Forces during the Gulf War (1991).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Rock Bottom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Wait here, I won’t be long.” Eskel murmured as he stepped out of the car, keys left in the ignition. The Audi binged in protest, distant sirens wailed, before the door shut and Jaskier was left in silence. <em> I apologise in advance. </em>What was that supposed to mean? He watched the front of the station for ten minutes once Eskel disappeared inside, trying to remember what Lambert looked like from the picture in Eskel’s office. Relatively unassuming apart from the obvious smattering of attitude. Putting up a middle finger for a picture had stopped being ironically funny in the nineties. Could only mean he didn't care what other people thought.</p><p>Eskel appeared from the front of the station moments later, followed by a man marginally shorter, with dark, scruffy hair on both his head and face. The leather coat on his back looked like it had seen better days, as did the torn, faded jeans and scuffed combat boots on his feet. Lambert had a duffel bag in one hand, and he slung it over his shoulder, chucked something small and round on the floor, and waved Eskel farewell. Or tried to. Eskel took his elbow and shook his head, stooping to pick up whatever Lambert had discarded. The altercation was brief. Eskel remained placid, head tilted to the side, as Lambert threw the hand away from him and turned around, fists clenched. Whatever Eskel said, whatever he <em> offered, </em> seemed to be enough, because the fight evaporated. Lambert looked away and then reluctantly followed back to the car.</p><p>As they drew closer, Jaskier could see the bruising around Lambert’s eye, the splits through his lip and his left eyebrow. The boot pinged open as Lambert deposited his bag, and then the sound of the outside rushed back in as both fell inside the cabin. Lambert slumped back in the back seat, his head tilted between the headrests, before he leaned forward and smirked at Jaskier. “Who’s the twink?” </p><p>Eskel growled. “Put your seatbelt on.”</p><p>“Jaskier,” he swivelled in his seat and offered his hand back. “Pleasure to meet you, Lambert.”</p><p>“Oh,” Lambert’s eyebrows shot up and he took the hand gingerly, brown eyes alight in sardonic amusement. “And where did you two meet?”</p><p>“<em>Lambert…" </em>Eskel growled as he shoved the car into gear.</p><p>“I’m a student at the university.”</p><p>“Oh, <em> fuck, </em> Eskel,” Lambert laughed and slumped back, hands rubbing over his head. “I need to savour this. Get going. I want a MacDonald’s. Twenty nuggets, fries and a strawberry milkshake. And what the <em> fuck </em> are you listening to?” He threw himself between the front seats and began to paw at the radio. Eskel scowled, but allowed him to change the channel until he found music that thumped through the bass in a relentless, repetitive rhythm. Lambert fell back again with a sigh. Jaskier could smell the alcohol, and he glanced down when Eskel chucked something small and plastic into the centre console. <em> An AA chip. </em>Jaskier recognised it from his stint volunteering with Triss at one of the local homeless shelters; most of the people that attended abused a substance - drugs, alcohol - anything to take the edge off while living on the streets.</p><p>Other than the thump of some rather dated dance music, they drove in silence. Eskel kept glancing in the rearview mirror, but Lambert was still, his eyes closed as he lounged on the middle seat. He didn’t stir until they exited the drive-thru and Eskel passed his food back. “Don’t spill it on the upholstery.” </p><p>“Just for that, I’m going to drop a chip in a really shitty place.” Lambert ruffled Eskel’s hair, wedged his drink between his thighs and popped open the sharing box of twenty chicken nuggets. “I swear they put crack in these things. Just too fucking good.” He shoved one in his mouth and slumped back again, chewing thoughtfully. </p><p>“Where’s your guitar?” Eskel pulled out onto the mainroad. They were only ten minutes from Jaskier’s halls of residence. Lambert had very few personal possessions. He tended to sell most things of importance, but occasionally busking earned him money here and there. It was a lifeline. </p><p>Jaskier thought he saw an in for polite conversation. “Oh, you play?”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m like an edgier James Blunt,” Lambert drawled, and then swivelled to kick his feet up onto the backseat, back pushed against the side. “I pawned it. Needed the cash.” Eskel’s shoulders dropped in resignation and he rubbed his free hand over his face, the other still planted firmly on the steering wheel.</p><p>Jaskier watched him with a furrowed brow, and glanced at Lambert again in the rearview mirror. “You were in Eskel’s regiment. Front row in the photograph on his book shelf.”</p><p>“Look, buttercup,” Lambert put his box of nuggets aside and grasped his milkshake as he leaned forward again, his head between the two headrests. “I don’t give a fuck whether you’ve been eyeing me up while he rails you over his desk or not. Brats like you take one glimpse beneath his Saint Eskel veneer and run a mile, so excuse me if I don’t feel like engaging you in small talk.”</p><p>“Lambert,” Eskel snarled, teeth gritting. “Put. Your seatbelt. On.” Seethed, the quirk in his lip making it all the more fierce, and Lambert sat back again. It was like he had a jittery energy and couldn't sit still. Seconds later his seatbelt clicked into place, but Jaskier could see the smug look on his face, not even disguised when he sipped his milkshake. The rest of the journey passed in silence. Eskel pulled up outside St John’s College and clicked off the automatic lock. “I’ll see you at the next lecture, Jaskier.” </p><p>“Of course. Umm, thanks for - for today,” Jaskier ducked out of the car at the same time as Lambert and nearly walked bodily into him. “Was good to meet you Lambert. Hope you feel better soon.” He smiled brightly and headed through the courtyard, carefully ignoring the look of surprise he received. It was still relatively early, which meant he had some time to catch up with Triss for some pre-drinks before the party tonight. Even if he already <em> knew </em> his thoughts were going to be occupied by Eskel, because <em> this </em> brat didn’t give up quite so easily.</p><p>***</p><p>“You’re a fucking asshole.” Eskel growled when Lambert fell into the passenger seat.</p><p>“Yeah, and I never pretend to be anything else,” Lambert replied lightly, slotting his seatbelt into place before returning to his meal. “So, what’s his problem? What defect does he have for you to save him from, Eskel?” </p><p>“He doesn’t have any defects. I’m just helping him pass.” They pulled out onto the main road and Eskel headed into the suburbs.</p><p>“Now, you see, that’s bullshit,” Lambert watched the world flit by the window as he spoke. “With you, it’s all about what sacrifice play you can make. That’s why your relationships never work out. His defect must be pretty fucking big for you to risk your PhD on him. Nice juicy slab of martyrdom for a greater cause.”</p><p>“As enthralling as this psychological evaluation is, why did you just throw away four months of progress? And fighting?”</p><p>“In all fairness, they started it, I just finished it.” A couple of young drug dealers had seen Lambert minding his own business on a park bench and thought he’d be an easy target. Probably because of the half empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. They regretted their hasty assessment when he stomped all three of them into the ground. Unfortunately, the local constabulary had not seen Lambert’s side when members of the public had indicated he was the dangerous one.</p><p>“Are you fucking with me right now? You’re lucky they didn’t press charges. Jail time, Lambert. If you keep fucking around like this, you’re going to prison. That’s what they said when they were getting you out of lock up.” Lambert was silent. That in itself was worrying, and Eskel heaved a sigh. There was only one thing that tipped Lambert off the bandwagon to such a degree. One <em> person. </em> “What did she do?”</p><p>“She cancelled my visit again,” Lambert finished off the nuggets and propped his elbow against the door, his temple placed against his knuckles. “Said they needed to go see her mother or some shit, and that as I don’t have a job, or anywhere to live, I’m not really responsible enough to be around them anyway. It’s like the moment I signed those fucking divorce papers, I lost all my rights. So I thought, fuck it, what’s the point?”</p><p>“If you’d go to - .”</p><p>“I swear to fucking christ, if you tell me to go therapy right now, I will use this milkshake and make it look like a bukake party gone wrong in here.” Lambert brandished the paper cup dangerously over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in challenge and Eskel lifted a hand to indicate that part of the conversation was over.</p><p>“You’re staying with me until you get something sorted - housing, somewhere safe. Don’t be a prick about it. Just say yes. Besides, I haven’t eaten anything other than leftover takeaway in the last week.”</p><p>“Lambert, will you cook for my pathetic gay ass because I can’t be bothered to learn myself? Why yes, Eskel, it’s the least I can do as you have, yet again, swooped in and saved me from myself. Saint Eskel, be praised.”</p><p>Eskel sighed and extended a hand out to brush over the top of Lambert’s head to the back of his neck. “You’re welcome.” Lambert tsked at him like the feral little shit he was, and then slumped to the side, slurping on his milkshake.</p><p>***</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Wolf</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 3:00 AM</span><br/>
<span class="greply"> Lambert in trouble again. Arrested.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Keira?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Good guess.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Not hard. All ok now?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Bailed. Has a hearing. Probably a fine. ETA?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Delayed. Will be longer. Update when I know.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> FaceTimed with Ciri?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Yes. Haircut looks fine.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>Eskel smiled and leaned back in bed. He could imagine Geralt squinting at his phone screen, brow furrowed, and coming to terms with the change as his daughter waffled on about her latest school project. Geralt would’ve heard white noise until he could get over the damned hair, and then asked her to repeat everything she’d just said. Change was hard for Geralt. He would struggle with the return home.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Wolf</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Cold beer ready for you in the fridge.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Thank you. Speak soon, Bear.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p><em> Bear. </em> He only ever used that when - . Eskel ran his thumb over the screen, typed out another message, and then deleted it quickly. That was not a rabbit hole he wanted to go down right now. Not when he was currently dealing with a building interest in Jaskier. He wasn’t even Eskel’s normal type, and yet… it was those damned eyes. That smile. The way he looked at Eskel like he was a legitimate human being. His intelligence. His - <em> fuck. </em>  But Lambert was right. It couldn’t work. Would never work. <em> Speaking of. </em> Something clattered downstairs and he shuffled out of bed.</p><p>Eskel lived in a converted warehouse. Garage and workshop below him, with an open floor plan downstairs and three bedrooms with their own ensuite bathrooms on a mezzanine level. The huge, floor to ceiling industrial windows flooded the main living area with light in the mornings. It had been a project shared between himself and Lambert during Eskel’s recovery. </p><p>The payout Eskel had received after his injury, on top of his pension, had been substantial enough to buy a decent property closer to town, but there was something attractive about repairing a forgotten and disused industrial site instead. A reminder that even broken things could become useful again. Lambert had done all the electrical work, wiring in one hell of a sound system, and Eskel had seen to all the decorating and sourcing of materials. It was as much Lambert’s home as his - even if Eskel paid the mortgage on the building itself - but he was too fucking <em> proud.  </em></p><p>“Still hungry?” Eskel murmured as he got to the bottom of the winding staircase. It wasn’t food Lambert was looking for in the fridge, and he withdrew sheepishly as Eskel approached. The beer was soon removed from his hands. “Do I need to tip it all down the sink?”</p><p>“No. S’all good.” Lambert put his hands up, walked around the kitchen counter and back out towards the couch nearest the television. The living space was huge and Eskel had packed it with furniture, including a piano forte tucked beneath the mezzanine. The huge, flatscreen TV had been Lambert’s idea; Eskel didn’t bother with it.</p><p>“Your room is still as you left it. It’s half three in the morning.”</p><p>“It’s fine. Just go to bed. I’ll watch porn on freeview.” Lambert threw his feet up onto the coffee table and began channel surfing. He was trying to keep himself awake.</p><p>“They getting bad again?”</p><p>“Dunno’ what you’re talking about.” <em> Flick. </em> Fishing channel. <em> Flick. </em> Bowls. <em> Flick. </em> Cars… oh, was that a - ? No. <em> Flick.  </em></p><p>“Right.” Eskel leaned back, arms spread over the back of the couch, and settled in for the long haul. The channels continued to flicker by until Lambert found one showing a film that vaguely interested him. Ground Hog Day.</p><p>“Someone ran the maths on how many years he would have been repeating the same day. It takes ten thousand hours to master a skill, so it’s something like ten years and eight months when you take into account the languages, the ice sculpting, the piano and everything. Some disagreed and said it was less. Can you imagine repeating the same day, every day for years?”</p><p>Eskel sighed. “Don’t have to imagine. Neither do you.”</p><p>“Hmm. No, guess not.” </p><p>Lambert fell asleep eventually, and he slumped to the side. Sleeping rough took its toll. At least he was clean, fed and warm now. The only time he ever made an effort to visit a hostel to clean up was when he was due to see his kids. The rest of the time he just didn’t care. And he refused to acknowledge that there was something wrong with that. Eskel retrieved one of the fleece blankets from the back of an armchair and draped it over him. It was six o’clock in the morning and time to go for a run. With the TV still humming in the background, Lambert would sleep peacefully for a few hours at least.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>James Blunt is an English songwriter who left the military in 2002 to pursue his musical career.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Choosing Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eskel couldn’t ignore it any longer. Couldn’t pretend it didn’t exist. In the lectures, he returned Jaskier’s smiles and found his eyes wandering over to him during the seminars even when other students were talking - <em> not good - </em> and could feel the attention returned when he looked away. The dam had been opened. Not unexpected. When Eskel accepted the invitation to go punting, he’d known the quiet hum deep in his chest would become more pronounced. </p><p>It had kindled on stage in that damn pub. During Jaskier’s set. The moment those blue eyes had dropped down in awe, watched his hands run across the piano keys with open adoration, something had sparked. Eskel had panicked, and then the scrutiny of others had made him run. <em> Too much. </em>What had started as an attempt to salvage someone from self-destruction and quietly repay a debt was now becoming… something else.</p><p>For their next meeting, Eskel and Jaskier left the office to sit out in the courtyard. It was a warm, spring day and the term ended soon. Two more weeks to get his final English essay written and then his module would be over, but, of course, Jaskier fully intended to meet Eskel’s second deadline, even if it wasn’t necessarily attached to university credits. It was a matter of honour. <em> How much is your word worth? </em> </p><p>Jaskier had swapped to iced coffee now that it was warmer, but Eskel was clearly plugging for Englishman of the year, because he was still dutifully sipping tea from a thermos, hob nob in hand. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and Jaskier was so distracted by how broad and shapely his forearms were, covered in sporadic scars and nicks, that he missed the first prompt. Eskel repeated, leaning forward, “Tell me about Lady Adeline.”</p><p>“Oh, uh - at first I thought she was a frigid bitch,” Jaskier murmured. “But then Byron paints her to be passionate deep down, and that’s a threat to her marriage. Loving him is an <em> effort </em> for her. But it’s not like Julia, I think she <em> does </em> love him, and she plays her role really well. She’s a perfect politician’s wife. Don’t like her though.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“She’s nice to people’s faces, and then gossips about them behind their back.”</p><p>“Isn’t that just the human condition? Everyone gossips. Just the exchange of information.”</p><p>“Not in this way. She goes out of her way to be horrid.” Jaskier fluttered one hand, and ran his finger down the seam of his annotated book. He’d prepared for this, and that was the only reason he was able to follow the conversation at all. In reality, he had a thousand questions about Lambert, and a thousand more about Eskel himself. Nothing about the little exchange in the car had warned him off; quite the contrary, he was now more drawn to this world of broken heroes than ever before. And Eskel himself. With his hazel eyes, red shirts and encyclopaedic knowledge of literature.</p><p>“And what are her designs on Don Juan?”</p><p>“She wants to marry him off, but it needs to be a loveless marriage. That way she can ensure he returns continuously to her own bed,” Jaskier sighed. “See. Complete bitch.”</p><p>“Hmm. And what of Aurora?” </p><p>“She’s completely the opposite. Sweet sixteen. She’s young, pure… untainted by the world. I noted down this phrase, actually. I think I might have it tattooed on my bum or something,” he flicked through his notes and his heart fluttered a little when Eskel chuckled. “The love of higher things and better days; the unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance, of what is called the World, and the World's ways. Those are the things that she ‘awakened’ in Juan. Innocent love. Pure love. Purer even than what he had with Haidee, because that was still <em> tainted </em> in some way, wasn’t it?”</p><p>“Hmm. You tell me.”</p><p>Jaskier frowned. “All these fees I pay and I’m basically teaching myself here, Eskel.”</p><p>“You’re a cheeky little shit. This is free,” Eskel murmured and sipped his tea, deadpan. He enjoyed the look of surprised outrage on Jaskier’s face, but when those blue eyes shone with bright amusement, Eskel nearly spilled tea down his shirt. He covered his fumble with a quick series of questions that at least <em> sounded </em> befitting of a graduate student. “Who does Juan choose? Does he give into the machinations of the aristocrats, or does he resist to become a better man? Does he perhaps aspire to Aurora?”</p><p>“It’s unclear. The poem’s not finished. There’s one line that might persuade me he resisted. In canto seventeen, it says the Duchess ‘had a sort of air rebuked, seemed pale and shivered’. If Juan had given into her the night before, then surely she wouldn’t be feeling rebuked. But, he yielded to everyone else, and in each case the woman was the aggressor. But the language it’s… unclear.”</p><p>“The reader is left to decide for his or herself,” Eskel clasped his hands. “So decide. Did he give in, or is he going to be a better man to claim the love he really wants?” </p><p>“I - ,” Jaskier rested his hand over the poem. “I want to say he didn’t. That the duchess had an air rebuked because he turned her down, and he <em> has </em> before, but that’s because he was essentially a slave and mourning, but then he went and had it off with Catherine the Great. But - I - a part of me doesn’t believe that people can change like that. You can’t just <em> see </em> someone and suddenly want to be a be--.” He trailed off, and bit down on the desire to stare at Eskel. </p><p>
  <em> You can’t just see someone and suddenly want to be a better person for them.  </em>
</p><p>And yet… <em>here we are.</em> </p><p>“You alright?” Eskel tilted his head, trying to catch Jaskier’s eyes, but he wouldn’t look up. “Jaskier?”</p><p>“Yes. Fine. Just - musing.” He smiled and allowed his book to close. “So, that’s it then.”</p><p>“Indeed. Have you finished Professor Daniels’ essay on the Dark Lady?”</p><p>“Yes. All printed for the seminar, and I’ve already submitted it on Moodle. A true work of genius, if I do say so myself.”</p><p>“Oh? Well, I’ll look forward to marking it.”</p><p>“Mm. I had an inspirational teacher,” Jaskier watched the flush rise just above Eskel’s collar, and then dropped his hands to his lap. He liked making Eskel flush, and smile; he liked it even better when he did that bashful brush of his hand over his face, even if it was clearly a product of being self-conscious about his injuries. It was sweet. Such a huge, powerful man rendered timid by a simple compliment. “Is Lambert alright?”</p><p>“No,” Eskel said quietly, “He will be, eventually. But not at the moment. The last few years have been tough for him. He’s actually a great guy. Two beautiful kids, loyal to a fault, brilliant mind.”</p><p>Jaskier smiled gently. “Thought about asking him out?” Teasing, obviously. And then he realised that he <em> may </em> have stepped on a proverbial landmine by accident, but thankfully Eskel just laughed.</p><p>“That would be an absolute disaster. I’m not sure either of us would walk out alive. I - it was inappropriate, what he said. And I apologise. If it made you feel uncomfortable, I can ask him to - .”</p><p>“Oh, no. It’s fine. Seriously. I’ve had <em> way </em> worse hurled at me in the past.” His phone - blasted fucking thing - began to beep to signal the end of the session. If he didn’t have an international relations module he <em> couldn’t </em> afford to fail, he’d happily sit out here with Eskel for hours. Phone silenced, he began gathering his notes. Eskel helped and Jaskier’s fingers brushed across his in passing. The urge to wind through them, to feel them against his palms - their strength, their calluses, their lines - was overwhelming. They were so <em> big. </em> Like bear’s paws. They would wrap around Jaskier’s hips so easily, and - </p><p>Jaskier sucked in a sharp breath and banished the thoughts to the back of his mind to be considered in the safety of his dorm room. “Sorry.” <em> Fuck</em>. If Eskel were another student, he’d have had him up against a wall, in his bed and probably in a random cupboard by this point. Multiple times. The suspense of waiting for the end of the module, for the right <em> moment</em>, was too much. Jaskier had never wanted to <em> not </em> fuck something up so badly in his entire life. </p><p>“I’ll see you at the seminar.” Eskel said, watching Jaskier closely. The smile he received was just as staggering as all the others and Eskel dropped his face into his hands once Jaskier - <em> his fucking student - </em> had disappeared into the building. “He’s a student. He’s a fucking student.”</p><p>“Who’s a student?” The bench juddered heavily as a large weight threw itself down, and Eskel looked through parted fingers into the leering green eyes of Letho.</p><p>“You know who. What do you want?”</p><p>“To eat lunch. Had a couple of late lectures I had to stay behind for, so, y’know, hungry.” Letho indicated the tupperware in his hand before dumping it on the table. “Heard Lambert fucked up again.”</p><p>“He didn’t fuck up. He just needs help.”</p><p>“So he can become a high-functioning crazy like you?”</p><p>“You’re so fucking charming.”</p><p>“I know.” Letho grinned. All teeth. “Not to throw another snake amongst the wolves, but… you’re a graduate student, not a professor. As long as you’re not directly responsible for his course or his work, then you’re all good to go. Only problem is the work you’ve already marked. Could be accused of showing favoritism while courting him. So, if you did pursue a relationship, you’d be just a lecherous old man, rather than an academically ruined, lecherous old man.”</p><p>“And you’re telling me this why?” Eskel rested the side of his head against his knuckles, and watched Letho pick apart his pasta salad.</p><p>“Two reasons. Firstly, pining isn’t a good look for you, not for <em> two </em> people. One is enough. Secondly, I love drama and watching it all come crashing down will be truly fucking majestic. And I, noble Letho, will be there to pick you up as I always am.”</p><p>“Prick.” Eskel shoved his books into his satchel and snatched his thermos from the table. </p><p>“Is that a request?”</p><p>Eskel didn’t answer as he walked away. </p><p>Two weeks later, Eskel sat behind his desk with two of Jaskier’s essays in his hands. One for the formal course, the second that had been written purely for him. He read through them both. Academic, eloquent, thoughtful. They were both Firsts without question. Eskel leaned forward, picked up the red biro… and then hesitated. His eyes flickered across to the door linking with his office; the professor was busy on his latest book and would be toiling away all evening. This was the point where he had to decide. If he signed off on the whole thing and at some point down the line he became weak, then the university would probably launch an investigation, or worse, but if he could get his work <em> moderated</em>, then -</p><p>Eskel ran his hands over his head and stared at the high, vaulted ceiling. Of course he hadn’t taken Letho’s word for it. His call sign - Viper - seemed to have leached under his very skin. There was nothing remotely trustworthy about him<em> . </em> But he was right. The guidelines were extremely explicit on what was and was not allowed. Graduate students, as long as everything was declared, were not denied relations with other students. So now Eskel was left with a choice. Did he allow himself to pursue this? It would mean coming clean about his initial motivations. And that - that could go wrong. But, those eyes. That smile. Eskel wanted to know more. See more.</p><p>“Are we doing this?” Asking no one in particular. No. His conscience. He was asking his conscience. “Yeah, we’re doing this.” He rolled up to his feet, grabbed the essays and knocked on the professor’s door. “Gerald, got a minute?”</p><p>***</p><p>Jaskier didn’t go home for the break. Triss did, and he waved her off sadly as she threw her suitcase and laptop case in the boot of her dad’s car. She lived in Kent and there was a good few hours of driving ahead, but she still bounced back over and placed one final smooch on his cheek, “Don’t do anything crazy while I’m gone.”</p><p>“Like?”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know. Bed your English Literature seminar leader before your grade comes in. Something like that.”</p><p>“Haha. Cheeky bitch. Go on, go home. Your dad’s waiting.” Jaskier gave her a light shove and waved at Mr. Merigold, who <em> did not </em> wave back. The novelty of always being the friend that parents rather you didn't have wore off after a few years. Jaskier sighed and headed inside. </p><p>The first week he occupied himself with a few pretty faces that had stayed for the break too. There was a particular engineering student he was partial to. Yet even as his lover moaned beneath him, hands pawing at his chest, damp lips parted and body needy, he found himself yearning for Eskel. For those hands he had touched so innocently on the park bench to be latched onto his hips and shoulders; those muscled thighs that ran twelve miles every day wrapped around his waist; that messy black hair, mussed by the grip of Jaskier’s hand, damp from exertion. Would Eskel moan his name, or would he be all quiet pants? Would he want to be touched gently, or firmly? And afterwards he wouldn’t just roll out of bed and grab his jeans, would he? There would be tea, poetry and cuddling. Eskel was <em> definitely </em> a cuddler. It was written all over him. Jaskier bid his pretty engineer goodbye with a flutter of the fingers, still feeling rather empty, and rolled over to open his laptop.</p><p>He checked his emails in passing and nearly had a damned heart attack. An email from Professor Daniels.</p>
<p></p><div class="window">
  <p class="topbar"></p>
  <p class="textfield">From: g.daniels@educ.cam.ac.uk</p>
  <p class="textfield">Subject: Internal Essay Moderation</p>
  <p class="textfield">To: jpankratz19@educ.cam.ac.uk</p>
</div><div class="ebody">
  <p>Dear Julian,</p>
  <p>After a brief investigation and a process of internal moderation, your grades for this course have been confirmed as fair and accurate. I attach the marks for your most recent essay, in addition to the question you wrote for extra credit. I implore you to submit this for the essay prize at the end of the year; it is excellent. Your private tutorials with Eskel must now come to an end as the module has officially finished.</p>
  <p>Kind regards,<br/>
Prof G. Daniels</p>
</div><p class="buttonbar"></p>
<hr/><p>Jaskier threw on his clothes, grabbed his room key and <em> ran. </em> He didn’t know why he was so upset. It wasn’t like he’d failed the course. And he didn’t even <em> have </em> anything with Eskel, did he? It still felt like abandonment. He wasn’t even sure Eskel would be in his office. Surely he’d work from home outside of term time. Well, if he <em> wasn’t </em> then Jaskier would leave him an <em> angry </em> note. Might steal his copy of Lord Byron and return to thump him with it later. He’d promised. They were meant to meet for the whole damn year. Jaskier was meant to have him for - . </p><p>He didn’t knock and burst in, the ancient wooden door ricocheting off the bookshelf, his fury manifesting into an accusatory finger point when he spotted the man himself sitting at his desk. “What the fuck did you do?”</p><p>Eskel placed his pen down slowly. “Jaskier - .” </p><p>“Decided I’m not worth your time, have you? Decided that I’m too much trouble? <em> Fine. </em> Fine. I get it. Too high maintenance. You’re just like everyone else,” he shook with indignant rage, because he realised that Eskel’s attention had made him feel <em> special </em> in some way. Not in the horrendous, lecherous way that often came attached to this kind of dynamic, but Eskel wanted to <em> listen </em> to him. Wanted to share poetry, and Jaskier had <em> desperately </em> wanted to see those hands play the piano again. “You make promises and then you don’t keep them, and - and - why are you fucking <em> smiling</em>?”</p><p>Eskel had been listening placidly to the tirade, and now clasped his hands over his stomach as he leaned back in his chair. “Do you like sushi?”</p><p>“What?” Incredulous. High-pitched.</p><p>“You know. Cooked rice, wrapped in seaweed, sashimi and - .”</p><p>“I know what fucking sushi is. Why - what are you - ?” Jaskier was suddenly very aware that his hair was a mess, his skin was bright red and his neck was covered in lovebites. Not only that, but his shirt was only half-buttoned - incorrectly - and his fly was open. As far as dramatic entrances went, he’d nailed it.</p><p>“Would you like to come to lunch with me? And then for a coffee?”</p><p>“Is - is this a date? Legitimate this time. Not - not disguised?”</p><p> Eskel turned his eyes away. <em> Not disguised. </em> Because the punting had <em> definitely </em> been a bit more than an open air seminar. “Well, that’s up to you. But - uh, you might want to go and put some shoes on.”</p><p><em> Bare-footed as well. </em>“Right, yes… so, you’re… this…”</p><p>“I’m sorry, I’ll explain. Meet by the gatehouse in twenty minutes?”</p><p>“Right. Yeah. Twenty minutes.”</p><p>Having sprinted to Eskel’s office across the courtyard, Jaskier now felt like he was doing the walk of shame back to his room, floating on a cloud of confused wonder. <em> What - was happening - ? </em> He stumbled back into his room, put on  a clean shirt, quickly dragged a brush through his hair and found some shoes. Satchel slung over his shoulder, he walked out fifteen minutes later to meet Eskel, who was already standing there waiting.</p><p>It was warm, so Eskel wasn’t wearing his coat. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows again, his shirt popped open at the collarbone and his hair its usual mess; it always seemed to tread the border between deliberately styled and unkempt. <em> Too damn attractive. </em>And then that low timber rumbled out, almost tentatively, when Eskel spoke, “Fancied the walk. Hope you don’t mind.”</p><p>Jaskier shook his head, mainly because he wasn’t sure whether his mouth could open without letting loose a slurry of questions. Thankfully, he didn’t have to suffer in silence for long.</p><p>“I’m sorry that you found out that way. I was hoping he’d wait until term started again, but he was unusually organised.”</p><p>“So, why - ?”</p><p>“Well, you’re not my student now, so…” This was harder to verbalise than he thought, and Eskel grimaced up at the sky for a moment in search of the appropriate vocabulary. “If you like, this could be just lunch and coffee with a friend. Or, it could be… more. I know I presumed, and I’m sorry, but - .”</p><p>“No,” Jaskier reached across and grabbed one of Eskel’s hands to give it a light squeeze. “Don’t be. That makes sense. <em> I’m </em> sorry, I overreacted and burst into your office half-dressed.”</p><p>Eskel smirked. “Hmm. It was <em> very </em> Lord Byron of you.”</p><p>“Well, as he’s the original disaster romantic, I’ll take it.” </p><p>Eskel laughed, and Jaskier’s heart sped just a little faster.</p><p>***</p><p>It was a date. Jaskier informed Eskel that the moment they stepped into Yo!Sushi and plucked the first coloured bowl from the belt. And <em> then </em> Eskel started to eat with a <em> fork </em> and Jaskier blustered. “You don’t eat sushi with a damn fork! Come here.” Slowly, painstakingly, he got those big fingers to manage with chopsticks. Eskel made it deliberately difficult because Jaskier stuck his tongue out between his teeth when he was concentrating; it was potentially the most adorable thing he'd ever seen in his life. "Just put your thumb here - and then this finger here -." By the end of the meal, Eskel was plucking maki rolls and strips of salmon from the plates with ease. “I’m surprised you can’t speak Japanese.”</p><p>“Ahh, a little bit,” Eskel grabbed his fourth plate of salmon and avocado maki and Jaskier was suddenly very grateful he wasn’t footing the bill. The man ate like a literal… bear. He ate like a bear. “'Sumimasen' is 'excuse me', ‘toriaezu nama’ is ‘for now, we’ll have beer’… and kampai is ‘cheers’. Biru is also okay, apparently. Only the most important phrases.”</p><p>“Oh, definitely. Manners and alcohol are always the highest priorities. Very British." Jaskier grinned.</p><p>They decided to get their coffees to go and sat on a bridge in the sun, their legs dangling over the water. "I do have one question that has been bothering me. Never knew how to ask."</p><p>"Yet you asked my orientation so brazenly." Eskel smirked against the white cap of his cappuccino. </p><p>"Yes, well," Jaskier kicked his feet. "You asked my father's name before you offered your help. I… was surprised, but fobbed it off. I was worried I was about to be kicked out, to be fair. He knows lots of people. Soldiers especially. What's your connection?"</p><p>"Hmm." Eskel considered a pair of swans as they drifted below their feet, heads cocked upwards in hopes of some bread. "After I was wounded, I was in hospital for a long time. Was never going to be able to go back into active service. Not because of the enemy, but because of an administrative fuck up. NATO dropped two bombs on our heads. Your father fought for compensation. The Americans paid out, and the British topped up my pension."</p><p>"So, you felt like you were in debt." Jaskier's face fell. Of course he wouldn't have earned Eskel's attention on his own. Everything he was boiled down to who his father was. Jaskier looked down at his coffee cup, doing his level best to stem the knot in his throat before it boiled over into anything else.</p><p>"Mm, no," Eskel dipped his head, trying to find Jaskier’s eyes again. "I still can't feel parts of my face and I have to take ten pills a day, among other issues. I don't have debt. But at the time I believed that if you were anything like your father, then you were worth saving." He paused. "And as time went on, I realised I was wrong…"</p><p>"Disappoint you, did I?" It was always staggering when your perception of something was challenged. Jaskier's father did not qualify in his mind as a 'good man'. He was an asshole. Borderline abusive. Yet, without him, perhaps Eskel wouldn’t be sitting on the bridge with him now.</p><p>"No. You’re worth saving because you’re Jaskier. You're brilliant. Your mind, your -," <em>smile, eyes, </em>"- everything. I've probably enjoyed our discussions more than I had any right to. But I - ,” Eskel rubbed a hand over his face. “There are complications that could arise. My life isn’t exactly -,” he turned that same hand over in front of him; for a literature graduate, he was <em> really </em> struggling with his vocabulary, “normal.” <em> Healthy. Stable. </em>All valid.</p><p>“What is normal? I don’t do normal. I have a reputation to uphold.” Jaskier grinned. He was currently somewhere up in the heavens floating, because for someone like <em>Eskel</em> to call him brilliant was potentially the biggest compliment he had ever been paid. The knot in his throat melted away, replaced by a heady euphoria that he might actually <em>have</em> this. There might be a chance that Eskel could be <em>his. Don't mess it up. </em>Jaskier became very aware of the hickies on his neck, and readjusted his collar. “How about we make a deal? Let’s… go on a few dates. We can just - see how it goes?” </p><p>“Why do I feel like my bank balance is going to take a real beating this half term?”</p><p>“Darling, nothing worth having is ever low maintenance.”</p><p>Eskel laughed. <em> Ain’t that the truth. </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Boys in the Street</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eskel bought Lambert another guitar. In fact, he scoured every pawn shop in Cambridge until he found <em> Lambert’s </em> guitar and bought that one. Predictably, he received a pained look when he passed it back across, but his thanks was a three course steak dinner with all the trimmings and even a bottle of red wine. It didn’t matter that he’d paid for it, or that Lambert hadn’t <em> said </em> thank you; Lambert’s time and focus were reward enough. <em> And the food was so fucking good. </em> He called Keira too. She tolerated Eskel’s phone calls because she <em> knew </em> she was out of line. Eskel was the litmus test. If he rang, she’d stepped over the mark. After a brief conversation, she <em> permitted </em> a Skype call, and Eskel set Lambert up with one of his laptops. He busied himself with his thesis in his room to give his brother some privacy, but left the door ajar.</p><p>Lambert sat tensely on the sofa as Skype’s dial tone tuned in. When his daughter’s face appeared, his heart nearly leapt out of his chest. “Zoe!” She was wearing her Elsa dress and crown, her dark brown curls falling in a mess around a massive grin as she leaned in and kissed the screen.</p><p>
  <em> “Daddy! How you?”</em>
</p><p>“I’m good, sweetheart. How’s nursery going?”</p><p>
  <em>“Is good. A boy cut the hair off my Elsa doll though.” </em>
</p><p>“Really? That’s not very nice.” The one that Lambert had bought for her last birthday; he tried not to look crestfallen, but she was as perceptive as her mother. <em> Fuck.  </em></p><p>
  <em> “It’s okay, Daddy. I kicked him in the knee. He cried. I got timeout, but it was totally worth it.”</em>
</p><p>Lambert laughed. <em> Damn fucking straight she’d kicked him in the knee</em>, because no daughter of his was going to be a victim of the fucking patriarchy. “Good girl,” he paused. “Is Mason there?”</p><p><em>“Yeah. He’s just finishing a game on his playstation and will be here in a second.” </em> A voice called from the background. <em> “Love you, Dad. Won’t be long.” </em> Zoe leaned in to translate as if Lambert hadn’t heard. <em> “He said he loves you. So… does that mean we have time?” </em></p><p>“Baby, I always have time. You ready?” He reached down and grabbed the guitar waiting by the side of the couch. Zoe lurched away from the computer, little fists raised as he struck the first chord, <em>"The snow glows white on the mountain tonight, not a footprint to be seen, a kingdom of isolation, and it looks like I'm the queen.”</em> Yes. Lambert had a four-nearly-five year old daughter. He knew every fucking Frozen song like it was bible verse. He also knew Moana, the Lion King, Tangled and Brave. Any disney film with a strong female character, Lambert was all up in that shit. As he broke into the chorus, she started pogo-ing around the room like a feral little beast, and he tried his fucking hardest not to laugh, but she was the cutest thing on the planet. Thankfully, he knew the strumming patterns so well, he didn’t even need to concentrate. <em>“Let it go, let it go, can’t hold it back anymore!”</em> And then she got so enthusiastic she knocked the laptop askew. “Oh, f--, Zoe, are you alright?”</p><p>Eskel was grinning like an idiot in his room. Geralt and Eskel had a pact. They didn’t tease Lambert about how he was around his kids. Everything else was fair game. </p><p><em>“Oh, yes! Sorry. It’s not broken.” </em> Then Mason’s voice. <em> “Zoe, Mum’ll kill you.”</em></p><p>His son righted the screen and plopped himself down in the computer chair. Zoe leaned across for a final time and smushed a kiss on the camera before she danced away singing ‘Let It Go’ and bouncing. “Hey champ, how’s it going?” Mason was eight-going-on-nine, with Lambert’s deep brown eyes. Thankfully he’d inherited his mother’s good looks though. No one deserved to go through life with his travesty of a mug.</p><p>
  <em>“S’good. Scored a try at Rugby last weekend. Wish you’d seen it. Got past some really big forwards, and…”</em>
</p><p>Lambert just smiled. No. He hadn’t been told, or invited. Why would he? He set the guitar aside and leaned forward as Mason recounted the match, his friends, flossing - I mean, what the fuck even was that, but Lambert just nodded - his favourite and <em> least </em> favourite lessons at school - maths and science, favourites, English and languages, least. “Well, maybe Uncle Eskel can help you with the French. When you go to secondary school, it’ll be on your timetable, and -.”</p><p>
  <em>“I know. If you have to do it, might as well do it well."</em>
</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>
  <em>“Alan says that it’s the teacher’s fault. That she’s not very good, and that when I go to secondary school I’ll have a specialist, so it doesn’t really matter.” </em>
</p><p>“Alan,” Lambert’s brow set. “Who’s Alan?”</p><p>
  <em>“Mum’s new boyfriend. She’s been seeing him for a couple of months. Moved in last weekend.”</em>
</p><p>“Did he now?” Lambert clenched his teeth, and then transferred the tension down to his hand, squeezing the edge of the couch in a white knuckle grip. Mason opened his mouth to continue talking, and then Keira called him away. His ex-wife was fucking gorgeous - blonde hair, blue eyes, an angel - but he had never hated her more than right that second.</p><p>
  <em>“Sorry Lambert, they were due at my mother’s an hour ago, but - .”</em>
</p><p>“Who’s Alan? And why is he living with my kids without having met me?”</p><p>
  <em>“Lambert…”</em>
</p><p>“Keira. Who - what - ? Has he got a criminal record? What does he do for a job? How old is he? Like - what the fuck?” He could feel his temper burning deep in his chest.</p><p>
  <em>“I met him at a bar. He’s an accountant. An absolute gentleman. Good with Mason and Zoe. He’s… good for them. He’ll be a good - .” </em>
</p><p>“Don’t say it.”</p><p><em>“Look, I need to go.” - </em>“Keira, don’t you d - Keira.” She hung up and Lambert was left staring at a blank computer screen. The silence was deafening. Before he knew what his hands were doing, they latched around the laptop and tore the hinge of the screen from the keyboard. It shattered against the wall when he hurled it across the room. And then he was reaching for his coat. </p><p>Eskel had heard it all and left his room at a sprint. He didn’t bother with the stairs and leapt over the mezzanine with one hand on the railing. Lambert was heading for the door, but didn’t make it, because Eskel tackled him to the floor. The fight was frantic and Eskel took a solid right hook to the face that split his lip open. Four years ago, Lambert would have given him a run for his money, but he’d neglected himself to such an extent that all Eskel had to do was pin him down with greater weight. Three druggies were no match for Lambert’s skill, but against someone of equal training, he was outdone. Wrists pinned next to his head, jaw clenched, Lambert glared up at Eskel as he panted it out of his system, and then slowly, <em> slowly</em>, saw through the haze. Eskel grunted, “Done?”</p><p>“She - it - I.”</p><p>“Yeah, I know. But going ‘round there and knocking seven shades of shit out of him will land you with a restraining order at best, in prison at worst. And Mason and Zoe would be there to watch it, wouldn’t they?”</p><p>Lambert swallowed, “Yes.” Another few seconds past and Eskel studied the man below him closely, seeking calm. They got off the floor together and Lambert moved away from the door towards the couch in a daze. “I’m - I’m sorry about your laptop, it - .”</p><p>“It’s a thing. Couldn’t give less of a shit,” Eskel walked now, but his knee reminded him that he was nearly forty and leaping over balconies onto metal-reinforced floor tiles was not something he should really be doing. Trying his best to stem the growls of pain, he hobbled his way into the kitchen and opened the cabinet to find his painkillers. “It was bound to happen. But not telling you was not… right. Drink?”</p><p>Lambert sat on the couch with his face in his hands and didn’t answer, so Eskel poured him some orange squash and brought it over anyway. They sat in silence for half an hour before Lambert leaned back. His eyes were red, but Eskel didn’t comment. Lambert wouldn’t talk about it; he’d internalise it as yet another thing to berate himself with. Instead, they did what all former alcoholic ex-soldiers did when things were shit. They drank orange squash, ordered a curry and watched reruns of M*A*S*H until they both fell asleep on the sofa.</p><p>***</p><p>After their first date, Jaskier got Eskel’s number. The fact that he typed it into his phone as ‘Bear’ was neither here nor there. Their second date was at the Fitzwilliam Museum, and Jaskier listened to Eskel with rapt attention as he talked him through some of the nineteenth century pieces on display. Eskel seemed particularly taken by some of the Constable paintings; Jaskier was less impressed. “It’s just… countryside. I come from Hertfordshire. That is literally <em> all </em> we have. Miles, and miles of it.”</p><p>Eskel tilted his head to the side. “I spent many years in war zones; deserts, jungles, ruined cities. Nothing but death and destruction,” he rubbed the side of his face. “When we rotated home, it was the sight of Dover, and then miles, and miles of patchwork green that made me feel at peace again. It’s home.” Eskel looked across to Jaskier, and then flushed, because his date was currently looking at him with open adoration. “What?”</p><p>“Oh, nothing,” Jaskier fluttered his hand dismissively at the painting, carefully gathering the memory of that beautiful, dreamy expression on Eskel’s face to be marvelled at later. “Give me a Picasso over that any day. Clearly Constable is an old man thing.” Back turned, he hid his smirk and <em> felt </em> Eskel’s outraged glare at the back of his head.</p><p>“No accounting for taste. Picasso was a brat too.” Eskel grumbled and shoved his hands into his pocket, and Jaskier cast him a look of open-mouthed indignation, eyes sparkling in amusement. Thankfully, they agreed over most of the other artefacts and finished with a meal in Pizza Express. Jaskier learned that Eskel liked spicy food, and Eskel learned that Jaskier could play the violin too. </p><p>Every date seemed to follow the same pattern. Jaskier teased and prodded every time Eskel waxed poetic, and his rugged bear took it all in his stride, occasionally raising an eyebrow and clapping back with a zinger that left Jaskier <em> smarting </em>for days. They went to the cinema, the art gallery and met up in the pub. When Eskel turned up limping one day with a split lip, Jaskier had fussed and cooed, but Eskel waved him away, “Fell over while running.”</p><p>It was more difficult to get Eskel to pose for photographs. That took a few days. Eventually, Jaskier thrust himself into Eskel’s lap and snapped a selfie while he was sipping a beer. “You fu--,” Eskel reached for the phone. “Let me see. I swear to God if that ends up online.”</p><p>“Of course it will. Instagram, Snapchat, Twitter… it’s already up. Look how handsome you are.” Jaskier’s fingers had been typing at a hundred miles per hour and now that the photo was safely <em> online</em>, he passed his handset over to Eskel. It was an <em> alright </em> picture. And it caught him side-eyeing Jaskier with an affectionate glint in his eye.</p><p>“Don’t do that. I - ,” Eskel passed the phone back and rubbed his face. “Please warn me.”</p><p>Jaskier frowned when his common sense and empathy finally caught up with his desire to show off his - <em> boyfriend? </em>Not yet. They hadn't given it a name. “Oh, Eskel, sorry, I didn’t think. I just did it. I’m - do you want me to take it down?”</p><p>“No. It’s fine. Just - ask.” </p><p>After that, Jaskier was gentler and made sure to tell Eskel how handsome he was at every available opportunity. Even when Eskel simply smiled and fobbed him off, it didn’t deter him. If only he could <em> touch </em> and <em> caress </em> that handsome face, trace the scars and show Eskel how much he loved them. But there was still a slight issue; they hadn’t kissed yet. Jaskier had hugged him, sat in his lap, <em> hell, </em> Eskel had even given him a piggyback when he was too drunk after they’d spent a couple of hours in a bar, but no <em> kiss </em> yet. For someone as romantically-inclined - as <em> tactile - </em> as Jaskier, the lack of kissing was certainly… trying.</p><p>Furthermore, it took an entire <em> two weeks </em>to get Eskel back to a piano. Jaskier had to physically drag him into the music building and shove him down onto a bench, but eventually those beautiful hands were back on the ivory where they belonged and Jaskier, ever the thespian, hopped up to sit on instrument, his feet dangling off to the side, hands behind him so he could lounge back and admire Eskel from above. Moonlight Sonata transformed effortlessly into Fur Elise. “I could watch you play the piano forever. Do you have a thing for Beethoven?”</p><p>“Mm. I like the idea that he overcame his disability and aspired to greatness. Lots of lessons to learn from the greats.”</p><p>“Everything’s a life lesson with you, isn’t it?” Jaskier smirked.</p><p>“Perhaps if you paid more attention to what life wanted to teach you, you’d get in less trouble,” Eskel countered, looking away from the keys for a moment. “So, you know why I can play the piano. How did you get into music?”</p><p>“Hm. My mum plays the piano and the harp. It’s - there’s a beauty and a purity in music. You can express yourself in a way that sometimes mere words can’t quite manage,” Jaskier sighed. “Of course, Pankratz Senior detests it. Sees it as yet another aspect of my queer identity for him to hate.”</p><p>“Your queer identity?”</p><p>“Yes. He’s an asshole homophobe, and I’m an endless disappointment.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Eskel lifted his hands from the keys and sat back for a moment. “I had hoped that disapproving fathers wouldn’t be a rite of passage for gay men anymore, but seems like mankind still has some progress to make.”</p><p>“Yours too, huh?”</p><p>“Mm. He was a military man. Very defined views of the world. A gay son was his worst nightmare, and he made that very clear,” Eskel tilted his head to the side. “By the end, he understood. I forgave him.”</p><p>“Really?” Jaskier huffed a brief laugh, incredulous. The day he forgave his father for all the bullshit he’d endured over the last nineteen or so years would be the same day that hell froze over and a pig did a sortie over Big Ben. </p><p>“Yeah. You only get one father. Hmm, now, promise me you won’t take the piss out of my singing?”</p><p>“Oh my God,” Jaskier clapped his hands to his mouth and gathered his legs up onto the forte proper, folding them so that he could lean forward. “No. Go. Sing to me, Eskel.” </p><p>“Right,” Eskel lifted his hands again and depressed the keys. <em> “ </em> <em> When I was younger, my daddy told me I would never, never amount to nothing special, he'd come at me from every angle. He'd say, ‘You're the last thing I wanted, the last thing I need, how am I gonna answer when my friends tell me, my son, was kissing boys in the street, my son, was kissing boys in the street.’” </em></p><p>“<em>He tried to change me, said I'm embarrassing my country, how could I do this to my family? Do I wanna grow up being lonely? He'd say 'We've worked for our money, we put you in school, is this how you repay us? Do you think this is cool? My son, stop kissing boys in the street, my son, stop kissing boys in the street.’" </em></p><p>Jaskier had never felt so in love. Eskel’s voice was low, husky, but he was pitch perfect; soft, and wistful. How could you play the piano so well and not be? He didn’t look up from the keys even though the song was sedate. Tears sprung to Jaskier’s eyes, and he rolled his lower lip between his teeth to stem them.</p><p>Eskel continued, <em> “Now that I'm older, my daddy's heart's a little warmer, but he still won't hold me like my brother, and he still won't kiss me like my mother. He said, 'You're a part of this family, I made you myself, but the way that you act isn't good for your health, my son, stop kissing boys in the street, my son, stop kissing boys in the street.'" </em></p><p>
  <em> “My daddy's dyin’, and he's finally realized I'm not lyin’. We sit in silence but we're smilin’, because for once we are not fighting. He said, 'There was no way of knowing 'cause all I was taught is men only love women, but now I'm not sure. My son, keep kissing boys in the street, my son, keep kissing boys in the street. When I'm gone, keep kissing boys in the street.'”  </em>
</p><p>Jaskier knew a tear had slipped from his eye, and he swallowed thickly. The silence stretched, but eventually the tightness in his chest eased enough for him to speak. “I’d like to kiss you in the street.”</p><p>“Hm,” Eskel looked up, lips tilted in a faint smile. “Will here do?”</p><p>“Yes.” Croaked, breathless.</p><p>Eskel stood slowly and placed both hands on the piano as he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s lips. It was chaste, so precious, and Jaskier lifted his hands tentatively to card through Eskel’s hair. <em> Soft. </em> Of course it would be. His lips parted and to his <em> relief</em> Eskel accepted the invitation, deepening the kiss with a tender brush of his tongue, one of those big hands cupping the side of Jaskier’s jaw as if to keep him steady. The only thing that existed in the whole world was Eskel’s mouth, warm, delicious, and Jaskier scooted forward until he could rest a palm on the solid chest leaning towards him, tightening his fingers as he drew back and sucked gently on a plush lower lip. <em> How had he not noticed how full his lips were? </em>He tilted his head and pressed his lips to the right side of Eskel’s face, the tip of his tongue drawing over mottled skin and eliciting a quiet, shivering sigh from the man in his grasp. Jaskier smiled, “Well, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”</p><p>“Probably some,” Eskel murmured, drawing out of Jaskier’s grip far enough to look at him. “Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow night? I know it’s the last evening of break and you’ve probably got a party to go to, and - .”</p><p>Jaskier placed a finger over Eskel’s lips and bit his own when he received a disgruntled glower from hazel eyes. “I’d love to. Now, I think there was a part of your mouth that I didn’t explore, so… come here.”</p><p>***</p><p>“You want me to cook a meal for your twink?” Lambert glowered from the couch, arms folded.</p><p>“Please don’t call him a twink,” Eskel sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes. Yes, please. Obviously, you will be eating with us. He needs to fully comprehend what he’s getting himself into.”</p><p>“Well, he won’t <em> fully comprehend </em> until he’s met Geralt, will he?” Lambert huffed, and then glanced towards the door. <em> Fuck, </em> yes, he owed Eskel a million date nights and then some. “Fine. I’ll be your wingman. But it’s going to be spaghetti bolognese. You only really <em> know </em> someone once you've seen them try to eat tomato-y spaghetti without making themselves look like a fucking idiot.”</p><p>“Spaghetti bolognese it is. Thank you.”</p><p>“Just don’t make a massive racket when you’re fucking him. I have enough nightmares to deal with.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Eskel sings "Boys in the Street" by Kurt Hugo Schneider.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Buon Appetito (E)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Bear</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 11:02 AM</span><br/>
<span class="greply"> What does Lambert like to drink?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Anything with ethanol in it, but please don't bring any.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> I meant non-alcoholic. Idiot.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Charming. Schloer. The red grape flavour.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> And you?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> I do have drinks here.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> You know what, I'll bring dessert.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> He's baked an apple crumble. Don't.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Sorry, what now?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> All will become clear. See you tonight.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>***</p><p>When Eskel had suggested a jar of Dolmio sauce for the evening, Lambert groaned in agony and wrote down a list of ingredients longer than Eskel’s weekly shop, punctuating it with a lengthy lecture about being a ‘fucking culinary pleb’ and ‘having no tastebuds’. Apparently an authentic Italian recipe - “Lambert, there are two types of meat in this - three types, pancetta?” - it took a good hour of traipsing ‘round Morrisson’s to find everything.</p><p><em> Then there was the matter of choosing an outfit. </em> It took far longer than usual to pick a shirt to wear. He had no idea why. The choice was red, black or white. “Shit, maybe I’m putting on weight,” Eskel growled at the mirror as yet another shirt stretched across his chest, or maybe he needed to lay off the protein powder. The only clothes that fit were the ones he wore for work. Bookish English student was not what he was going for this evening. “T-shirt? No. That’d be - fuck.” In the end, he settled for a red shirt covered in a platinum paisley pattern and dark jeans. Cologne… no cologne? He gathered the collection of shirts off his bed and shoved them into the closet to be dealt with later - <em> you know, just in case </em> - and headed downstairs for final inspection. “How do I look?” </p><p>Lambert abandoned the herbs he was chopping to squint as Eskel spread his arms. “Ziggy Stardust called while you were showering and asked for his shirt back,” Lambert flipped the knife over in his hands. “How do you find clothes that fit? I can’t imagine TopShop catering for your level of cleavage.” Predictably, Lambert was in a black shirt, with black jeans, his combat boots shoved on and left unlaced. He was a great believer in not fixin’ what ain’t broke.</p><p>“It’s hit and miss,” Eskel grumbled and ducked into the fridge for a beer. “Do you need any help with anything, or - ?”</p><p>“Last time you helped me cook you managed to burn pasta, and then yourself. You’re a disaster waiting to happen,” Lambert looked up again as he picked up the chopping board, knife brandished in Eskel’s general direction. “In fact, just watching you get near the pappardelle is making me anxious. Like something will randomly burst into fucking flames. Get the fuck out my kitchen.”</p><p>“Right, right.” Eskel picked up the cutlery and placemats instead. The dining table never got any use other than when Geralt rotated back and Ciri visited; most of the time it was just a really expensive dust trap that Eskel fastidiously polished every weekend. Jaskier was due at some point in the next twenty minutes and Eskel actually felt <em> nervous. </em> Not sure why. He’d spent most of his adult life jumping from planes, walking into gunfire and… he just didn’t want to mess it up. Lambert seemed to sense it, because he had worked hard all afternoon making everything, and was being uncharacteristically quiet. Well, until -</p><p>“Hey, Google. Play Project Lambert playlist.” <em> For all the times that you rain on my parade, and all the clubs that you get into using my name -, </em> “ <em> fuck, </em> Google, next song - <em> Ciri. </em>” Lambert glared at the ceiling as if Sprout was hiding somewhere and giggling; she liked to mess around with his meticulously organised playlist. Justin Bieber was a low blow. Fine. Her My Chemical Romance playlist was about to meet Ed Sheeran. See how her little emo ass liked some ‘Shape of You’ and ‘Castle on the Hill’. Two could play at that game. The perils of sharing a Spotify account with a fourteen year old. The more palatable - to Lambert anyway - thump of ‘Booyah’ by Showtek filled the flat and Eskel grimaced as he flopped down onto the couch.</p><p>The bolognese itself had been cooking for four hours and the smell of it was making Eskel’s mouth water; Lambert returned to the pot occasionally to scoop the separating fat off the top and check the seasoning. The apple crumble was covered on the side, with the custard in the fridge ready to be heated for dessert. Everything had been made from scratch because, if something had to be done, then it should be done perfectly. Lambert was just dumping the pasta into the water when the doorbell rang and Eskel leapt to his feet.</p><p>Jaskier erupted across the threshold the second the door opened and wrapped his arms tightly around Eskel’s chest, “Evening, handsome,” he craned up for a quick kiss before finally disentangling himself and walking by. “Wow. This - <em> wow. </em> ” Jaskier tilted his head back and looked up at the high ceilings, before turning on the spot to take in <em> everything else; </em> the mezzanine level with three closed doors - had to be bedrooms - the piano tucked beneath the ledge along with heaped bookshelves, the living area with plush grey couches and a huge flat screen TV, the kitchen with its slate-grey surfaces and accented blue lighting beneath the cabinets. The amount of <em> space </em> was staggering. “I have to admit, I wasn’t sure I was in the right place. This is stunning.”</p><p>“Hey Google, reduce volume by fifty percent,” Eskel shouted over the thump of the bass and the computer system dutifully quietened the music. “We like being out of the way. Want me to take that?” He indicated the carrier bag in Jaskier’s hand and took it when it was thrust towards him. Grape Shloer. Two bottles of it in fact. Eskel placed them in the fridge, and Lambert glanced at them as they disappeared with narrowed eyes, but didn’t comment. Eskel called back, “What did you want to drink?”</p><p>“A beer, if there’s one going,” Jaskier leaned across the counter. “This smells amazing.” One hand reached across towards the bolognese pot -</p><p>“If you touch that, I will cut your fucking fingers off.” Lambert didn’t look around as he uttered his threat, but as the knife was already in his hand, Jaskier withdrew his own quickly. </p><p>“Good to see you again, Lambert.”</p><p>“No it isn’t. Sit down and get out of my way.” </p><p>Eskel sighed and gave Lambert a light shove as he walked by, beer placed in Jaskier’s outstretched hand. “Don’t worry. He gets ‘hangry’. Like a giant baby. And that’s been cooking all afternoon.” The glare he received tactfully ignored, Eskel sat with Jasker at the table. “Did you speak with home?”  </p><p>It was Sunday. Eskel remembered. He paid attention to every little detail Jaskier gave him, and even those he communicated in passing. No one had ever paid <em> that level </em> of attention to him before. His affairs were quick, impersonal, sensational in terms of physicality, but otherwise void of… something. And yet, Jaskier often found that he remembered <em> everything </em> about his partner. Their birthday, their hobbies and interest, <em> fuck, </em> even their sister’s hamster’s name on one occasion. Knew how to please them, how to make them laugh and coo. Perhaps it was <em> too </em>much. Most people couldn’t handle the intensity of the adoration and fled. Eskel seemed to be in awe of it. Jaskier grinned, “Yeah. She also wanted to know all about you. I sent her a picture. I hope that’s okay?”</p><p>“As long as it’s not that one from the gallery when I was talking about Turner - ,” he watched Jaskier’s face crease in amusement, “- oh great.” </p><p>“You look so cute when you’re being passionate about something,” Jaskier swivelled his beer in front of him. “Look cute now too. I like your shirt.” Any opportunity. <em> Any </em> opportunity to make Eskel flush and preen. Because he did it so discreetly; a faint smile, a subtle squaring of the shoulders as if to present himself for further praise. A man unused to someone marvelling over him, he was getting better now at accepting compliments rather than dismissing them as empty platitudes.</p><p>“Lambert said I look like Ziggy Stardust.”</p><p>“To be fair, if David Bowie had made me an offer while he was alive, I wouldn’t have said no. And you’re a damn sight better looking, and cleaner.” Lambert made a loud gagging sound in the kitchen and Eskel cast him a murderous glance. Jaskier smirked, “So, did our chef offer to cook, or - ?”</p><p>“No,” Lambert called over. “Eskel asked. And, as he would’ve burned down half of Cambridge trying to do it himself, I agreed.” He heaped pappardelle into three bowls, followed by generous ladles of meat from the pot on the hob. With everything switched off and the lights over the counters dimmed, he carried them over, one balanced expertly on his forearm. “Buon Appetito.” Lambert waited for Eskel to take his first bite and rumble in appreciation before he picked up his own fork, his smile quiet and smug. <em> Yeah, you enjoy it, big guy.  </em></p><p>Jaskier noticed. “Where’d you learn to cook? This is the best bolognese I’ve ever tasted.”</p><p>“In a kitchen.” Lambert left his chair to retrieve the Shloer from the fridge - <em> because he knew it was fucking in there and wanted it - </em>and dumped it infront of his plate next to an empty glass. “No need to make nice. I’ll eat, go put some headphones on and pretend I’m not here so you can get in his knickers.” </p><p>Eskel opened his mouth to shut Lambert down, but Jaskier gave a gentle shake of the head to ward him off. If Lambert was going to accept him, then it needed to be on their own terms. “I never thought I’d meet someone worse at taking a compliment than Eskel.” </p><p>“I don’t accept compliments from vapid brats,” Lambert murmured. “Shloer?” He indicated the bottle on offer, one eyebrow raised.</p><p>“Yes, please,” he pushed an empty glass across the table and watched as Lambert filled it. “Or perhaps you’re worried that accepting a compliment will mean you have to open yourself to people, and the idea that you're a nice guy underneath the attitude.”</p><p>“You’ve got me nailed there, buttercup,” Lambert pushed the drink over and returned to his food with a rather aggressive stab of the fork. “No, wait. You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.” </p><p>The air thickened with tension and Lambert’s shoulders hunched defensively, Jaskier knew when to allow things to settle and fell into a lighter conversation with Eskel about an upcoming gig he had planned at the Portland Arms. The bolognese was literally the best thing he’d tasted in months and Jaskier wolfed it down without ceremony; Eskel watched him fondly even as tomato sauce edged his lips and chin, only to be quickly wiped away by a swipe of the napkin. Lambert said nothing more until it was time for dessert and even then only to request Jaskier’s bowl before he headed to the kitchen for the crumble and custard. Also home-made. And mouth-wateringly brilliant. Once again, Lambert watched Eskel for approval and only ate himself once he’d received it. It was a subtle betrayal of the tenuous state of  Lambert’s self-esteem; Jaskier decided to tread carefully, no matter how savagely he was lambasted in return.</p><p>Halfway through dessert, Lambert tilted in his chair and pulled a phone from his back pocket. It unlocked upon acknowledging his face, and he rolled his eyes with an irritated grunt. Eskel blinked, “Keira?”</p><p>“No. Another dick pic’. What do these assholes expect? That I’ll see their dick, start drooling and trip over myself to text them a request to suck it?” He jabbed moodily at the remains of his food. “The women aren’t much better. The last one asked me to piss on her while she called me daddy. What the fuck is wrong with people?”</p><p>“I don’t think you ever actually intend to accept a date, even if a serious offer came through,” Eskel murmured. It was another of Lambert’s destructive tendencies. He occasionally got himself into dangerous situations with questionable people and barely escaped without dire consequences; the profiles were set up purely to prove to himself that no one was interested and would ever be, and even if they <em>were</em>, it was only to get what they wanted at his expense.</p><p>“What’re you on?” Jaskier yanked his phone from his pocket.</p><p>Before Lambert could tell their guest to mind his own fucking business, Eskel chimed in, “Grindr and Tindr.”</p><p>It took Jaskier about five seconds to find him. “Hmm. Now, you see, there are a couple of problems here. You’ve only included basic facts; that you’re ex-forces and you’re local to Cambridge, and this photograph is grainy. Isn’t it a zoomed in version of that one in Eskel’s office? Where’s the information about your cooking skills? The type of music you like? Eskel says you have like… two degrees that you did <em>at the same time</em>? You’re under-selling yourself.” </p><p>Glaring fire and fury across the table, Lambert slumped back and folded his arms. “The fact that I can cook doesn’t really come up when you’re in it for a quick shag.”</p><p>“No, if you were in it for a quickie, you’d accept a nice looking dick and go hook up. You want a date, with candles, dinner and a movie.” Jaskier grinned. </p><p>“He got married at twenty. Last date he went on was… twelve years ago?” Eskel squinted at Lambert and polished off the last of his dessert. “Actually, you should get properly back in the field. It’ll be good for you.” Hell, if Lambert found someone then it might go some way in making him invest some time in healing. It was a long shot. Eskel had spent four years begging, bribing, chiding and demanding that he get help to no avail. </p><p>"That's not fucking true, I--."</p><p>“You got married at twenty?” Jaskier gawped, and then lifted his hands with a flourish. Right. This man needed to get his fine ass out there. “Grindr and Tindr aren’t really the best for serious dates. I mean, it does happen, but… how about Plenty of Fish? A couple of my friends have found their beaus there. Let’s set you up an account. What’s his email address?” He quickly downloaded the app and popped open the sign up form.</p><p>Eskel leaned over to contribute. “It’s L.Murphy87@gmail.co.uk.”</p><p>“Wait one fucking second - ,” Lambert thumped Eskel on the arm. “What are you doing?”</p><p>“Worried you might get some genuine interest?” Eskel sipped his beer. “Scaredy Cat.”</p><p>“Fuck you, Care Bear,” Lambert growled, snatching the bowl from under Eskel’s arm, before he leaned across to take Jaskier’s. “You know what, go ahead. Why the fuck not? Yet another app to collect chodes and cumshots on. I’m stacking the dishwasher.”  </p><p>“Eskel, got any pictures?”</p><p>“Tons.” Eskel dumped his phone on the table and began to ping them through. All the ones that made Lambert look as handsome and soft as possible. “Can you blur the faces on Zoe and Mason?”</p><p>“Yes,” Jaskier, the pro that he was, had all the basics set up, glancing over to Lambert with narrowed eyes. “Five foot ten?”</p><p>By the time Lambert had stacked all the dishes and returned to finish his drink, the profile was well underway and he propped his chin against the heels of his hands. He glanced occasionally down at Eskel’s phone to track the photos he was pinging across. Two or three of them on base; one with Lambert playing football with some kids in Sierra Leone; another at Sandhurst with his guitar in the mess hall; one where he’d been lying prone at an observation post in Afghanistan and a ginger kitten had climbed onto his back to sleep. 'Cat and his kitten' had been the heading on the newsletter for that one; Geralt was an asshole. And finally, a couple with his kids; well, there was the guarantee that no one would be interested, right? Not that he gave a shit. Anyone who wasn’t interested in - <em> fuck, </em> why was he even considering this bullshit? </p><p>He didn’t even need to contribute. Eskel knew everything about him. <em> Everything. </em> They’d spent <em> years </em> at each other’s side, so of course he fucking did. Lambert’s interests - right down to his wikipedia-level knowledge of Robert de Niro films - his education, his time in service. It all went on there. And the soppy fucker actually made him sound like a <em> good person. </em>Well, Eskel was - an idiot, yeah. That. </p><p>Lambert’s chin was almost on the dining table by the time Eskel scooped his phone up, typed in his passcode to bypass the facial recognition - Mason’s birthday, standard - and passed it across to Jaskier to get him signed into the app. Jaskier slid it back across the table and logged out on his own, “I give it a week at most.”</p><p>“Whatever,” Lambert snatched his phone up and quickly scanned through the profile. He paused over the images of his children, their faces blurred to keep their anonymity, and his jaw clenched. “If you’re loud, I’ll spit in your breakfast cereal. Don’t fuck on the sofa, I sleep there sometimes.” He stood, stomped upstairs and slammed the bedroom door behind him. </p><p>Eskel listened, and when all was silent, spoke softly. “Thank you.”</p><p>“For what? PoF is hardly a trade secret.” Jaskier finished his drink around a wide smile.</p><p>“For not rising to him. He’s had a rough few days. And, believe it or not, was relatively polite tonight compared to what he can be.”</p><p>“He’s important to you, so that makes him worth the extra effort,” he left his seat and nudged Eskel’s arms out of the way so he could straddle his lap, arms loping around his shoulders. “Now, I know we both smell of garlic and tom - .” </p><p>Jaskier didn’t get to finish, because Eskel slipped a hand up through his hair and pulled him down for a kiss. Definitely garlic, tomatoes and beer, but also <em> Eskel</em>. Jaskier sucked on his lower lip, his tongue dipping into the grooves of the scar that ran through it before he lapped into his mouth further. Now, Eskel was a gentleman, he kept his hands still and his touch light, but Jaskier <em> was not</em>, and he shuffled forward until he was flush to Eskel’s chest, his ass pressing down where it mattered. Soft locks of black fell through his fingers as he pushed them up through Eskel’s hair, tugging his head back to reveal his neck, the brush of his lips rewarded with a quiet groan. “Jaskier, you don’t have to - .”</p><p>“Hush. Let me enjoy you.” Jaskier whispered, teeth grazing at the soft skin beneath Eskel’s ear even as he hooked open the first button of his shirt. Gentle kisses laced down to the hollow of his throat and across newly exposed collar bone, flushed and red. Those big hands were moving now, kneading up his thighs to settle finally at his hips, gripping, tugging, and Jaskier moaned softly into Eskel’s chest as he pressed down on a burgeoning hardness beneath him. “My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains, my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk…”</p><p>“Keats,” Eskel rumbled, hazel eyes lidded. “Ode to the Nightingale. He wasn’t on the syllabus.”</p><p>“No,” Jaskier lapped another kiss at the hollow of Eskel’s throat, fingertips picking another button and finally gliding through the dark hair on his chest. “Read it for you.” It was like Jaskier had cracked open a dam, because suddenly Eskel surged up to his feet, lifted him onto the edge of the table and pressed between his thighs like a man possessed; those scarred lips, soft and imperfect, pressed lavish kisses down the side of Jaskier’s neck, hungry and wanting, and Jaskier could do nothing more than cling onto the broad shoulders in front of him as they took their fill.</p><p>“Would - ,” Eskel pulled away, his thumb pressed to the inside of Jaskier’s knee, “- would you like to stay the night?”</p><p>“On the sofa, or in your bed?” Jaskier bit his lower lip, blue eyes alight with mischief, only to chuckle when Eskel scooped him off the table and carried him towards the stairs. Fuck. There was something truly glorious about being carried by someone like you weighed precisely <em> nothing. </em> Jaskier was as tall as Eskel, but there was just so much more to <em> hang from. </em> The bedroom door clicked softly shut and Jaskier sprawled out across the bed, flipping to his front to bury his face in the pillows saturated in the scent of Eskel’s cologne as the man himself mouthed kisses down the back of his neck. One hand slipped beneath Jaskier’s shirt, gliding up to knead at his waist before it dropped to his hip and pulled him back against the bulge at Eskel’s crotch. Jaskier groaned, wriggling in appreciation, “<em>Fuck, </em>you’re - .”</p><p>“Mmhm, gonna’ tell me what you like or just keep hugging my pillows?” </p><p>“Everything, I like… <em> everything. </em> Except this shirt, I’ve decided it needs to go,” Jaskier writhed until he was on his back, pawed open the buttons and pushed it from Eskel’s shoulders with a decisive shove. “Your chest is like some kind of Greek statue. I - .” <em> - need to squeeze it. </em>So he did. Thick pectorals tensed in his fingers and Eskel smirked; Jaskier surged up to catch a nipple between his teeth. His penance came in the form of a few buttons breaking from his shirt when Eskel clawed at it, but he couldn’t care less. </p><p>The rest of their clothes came off in fits and starts as they both tried to consume as much of each other as they could. Jaskier couldn’t get enough of how <em> firm </em> every inch of Eskel was - his ass, still barricaded behind the thin cotton of his boxers, his shoulders, his stomach, his arms - and Eskel marvelled at the supple, lithe body that squirmed beneath him; torso covered in fine, downy hair that he rubbed his face through as he shuffled down the bed. He slipped Jaskier’s underwear away and immediately sucked down the length of the hardened shaft beneath, humming in pleasure when Jaskier gripped a handful of his hair and <em> pulled. </em> “Eskel, ahh - p-please, yes, nfh.” He rocked his hips gently, the head of his prick nudging the back of Eskel’s throat, “Mmph.” Jaskier stared wistfully into the darkness, listening to the wet, delicious sounds that filled the room as Eskel hummed and lapped with enthusiasm. As Jaskier’s thighs began to quiver with building climax, Eskel pulled away with an audible pop and slid from the bed to kneel by his bedside cabinet; he returned with a foil packet between his teeth and a small bottle in his hand. Jaskier moved to turn over, but Eskel gently coaxed him back and straddled his thighs.  </p><p>“Oh, well. This is unexpected,” Jaskier grinned as the condom rolled down over his cock, and he leaned up to cup Eskel’s jaw and draw him down for a kiss. “Thought you’d be a top.”</p><p>“Mm. Most people do. Don’t mind topping, but you have a really nice dick. It’s going to feel fucking great in me,” Eskel thumbed over Jaskier’s head through the thin film of the condom and then coated him with the lubricant in the palm of his hand. “Is that okay?”</p><p>“Being crushed between your thighs? Yes. More than okay. A dream, in fact. I’ve been imagining them while pleasuring myself for weeks,” Jaskier smiled into the huff of laughter that burst across his lips, and then let Eskel sit back to line up. The low moan, the way he tilted his head back and rolled his hips as he lowered himself onto the thick length below him, Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever seen something so breathtaking; he smoothed his fingers up one of the solid thighs at his hip and gripped tense muscles to stay the urge to touch Eskel’s cock until his body had relaxed. </p><p>“Yeah,” Eskel bit out as he leaned forward, hands gripping in the duvet as he adjusted to the stretch. “Was right. So good.” It took him several careful thrusts to seat Jaskier fully and he tensed, earning an appreciative groan from the man below him. “Ahh, f-f- Jask- - mmm, please.” As Eskel began to slowly rock himself forward, allowing every inch to slide in and out of his rim, a slender hand wrapped around his cock and moved from root to tip in firm, languid strokes timed with his own gyrations. He panted as he moved faster, finding the angle that slid Jaskier along his prostate, and clenched his fists in the sheets until they shook. “Yes, fuck, <em> yes.”  </em></p><p>Jaskier pressed kisses to Eskel’s face, teasing the tip of his tongue along the sensitive areas around his scarring that he had discovered recently, whispering beauty and worship in his ear. Those words became steadily more broken as Eskel rode him, until they devolved into moans and gasps. Jaskier flopped back, still working the huge girth against his palm, which was definitely going inside him at some point in the next twenty-four hours, because <em> fuck </em> it was as gorgeous as the rest of the beautiful creature gasping over him. Blue eyes ran over the rippling muscles of Eskel’s torso, the tight coil of his shoulders as he leaned his weight forward to free his hips for the most salacious, graceful roll Jaskier had ever seen on a man. Eskel’s huge, powerful body gripped hungrily at his cock, milking its pleasure with demanding spasms and ripples of tight muscle, and Jaskier shoved himself up into the final few thrusts before he came hard with a bitten off shout.</p><p>Eskel arched, pushing Jaskier deep as he spilled over the fist still gliding over his shaft, moaning and whimpering in awe. As the final tremors abated, Eskel slumped forward, catching himself on his elbow before he folded completely, sweat-sheened forehead leaning on the chest beneath him. Jaskier gripped a hand in his hair to pull his head up, “Wish I could watch it all spill out of you. You felt so tight.”</p><p>Eskel grunted, scalp prickling as Jaskier tugged possessively. “Mmm. So I’ve been told.” He disentangled Jaskier’s fingers and placed a kiss on his palm. “I’ll get rid of this, and clean up. Water, tea, squash?” Condom gently pried away and tied off, he staggered from the bed on slightly shaky legs and disappeared into the bathroom.</p><p>“I don’t think I’ve ever topped for someone and then been offered refreshment.” Jaskier chuckled as he wriggled beneath the duvet and rolled around in Eskel’s cologne some more. “Just come to bed. At least let me give some aftercare.” The response was a low, rumbling laugh from somewhere behind the bathroom door. “I’m not kidding, Eskel. Get your fine ass back here.” Only content when his man-sized teddy bear was sliding under the covers with him, Jaskier shuffled a little higher so that he could tuck Eskel’s head under his chin and drape over his back; he folded their legs together and hummed in pleasure as he squeezed the solid mass in his arms. “Consider yourself spooned.”</p><p>“I am thoroughly spooned, thank you,” Eskel sighed, content, as Jaskier pulled him close. It was nice to be held. He didn’t get this with anyone except Letho, and even then it was bittersweet; his body always <em> hurt </em> after they were together - sore, bruised, sometimes bloody  - and he felt hollow inside. But not with Jaskier. Now he felt warm, sated; his lover was stroking his chest and occasionally dipped to press a kiss into his hair like he was worthy and precious. It didn’t take long for Eskel to drift off to sleep, even if his dreams were troubled by the third stanza of Keats’ poem. He knew Jaskier had seen the beauty of the motifs in the piece; the focus on music, the easy freedom of the nightingale, but Eskel couldn’t help but narrow in on another. As usual, his anxieties offered a single, destabilising thought that threatened to poison what he was building. Everything is mortal; nothing lasts.</p><p>***</p><p>It was <em> very </em> early when Jaskier blinked awake. He searched for the bulk of warmth that had soothed him for the rest of the night, but came up empty. The bedroom door was open. Boxers pulled back on, Jaskier padded blearily out onto the balcony and gazed down into the flat. <em> Not there. </em>As he listened in the quiet, he finally caught the sound of Eskel’s voice - “It’s alright, Lambert. It’s alright.” - followed by shuddering gasps. Jaskier walked silently across the mezzanine and peered through the crack in Lambert’s bedroom door. </p><p>All the lights were on, and Eskel sat on the edge of the bed in his dressing gown, one arm around Lambert’s shoulders, holding him close. Lambert clutched the back of his head, face buried in his own knees, as he rocked and panted. Eskel spoke softly, “You’re not there. You’re in our flat. Listen to my voice and come back. You’re doing well. Really well. Come back to me.”</p><p>Jaskier swallowed and returned to bed to give them privacy. When Eskel closed the bedroom door and crawled back in under the covers, Jaskier turned into his chest, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have the words yet.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. What Hurts The Most</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Flashback: Geralt and Eskel meet while undergoing the gruelling training regime required to join the SAS.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eskel’s career in the military was a forgone conclusion the moment his mother learned his gender. His father had glowed as he received a copy of the scan and took it with him on deployment to show the rest of his troop. It was such a <em>shame</em> when that very same son was caught with another boy in boarding school. Nothing Eskel could do from that point was good enough. The betrayal was too vast. Not until his father lay dying in hospital - an aggressive type of blood cancer - did they finally reconcile, but by that point Eskel had lived an entire lifetime in the shadow of disapproval. </p><p>By the time Eskel put himself forward for Special Forces training, he’d been in the military for the prerequisite thirty-nine months. The first time he met Geralt they were in Sennybridge, north Wales, for the first four weeks of the selection process. Recruits were beginning to gather in small bands of temporary friendships, but Geralt stood apart in that he didn’t seem interested in the slightest. Eskel watched him for the first few days, and realised he had set routines for <em> everything </em>. The order he ate his meals, the way he put on his uniform, the organisation of his locker, and he always triple checked the barrel of his rifle during loading drills. On day six they embarked on Exercise HIGH WALK, the twenty-three kilometre march intended to weed out the weak, and while Eskel was at the peak of physical performance, Geralt put him to shame. Eskel learned later that Geralt was from Devon and spent much of his youth running through the hills to escape his new age hippie mother. </p><p>In the second week, having grown bored of the misogynistic ramblings of his fellow squaddies, Eskel left the main table at the mess hall and slid onto the bench opposite Geralt. “Hi, I’m Eskel.” They only knew each other’s surnames and rank designation; this was Rivia, and Rivia knew him as Cirillo.</p><p>“No, you’re not.”</p><p>Eskel blinked, “What?”</p><p>“Your name’s Esben,” Geralt murmured without looking up from his food. “You use Eskel as a nickname. So you’re Esben, but you prefer to be addressed as Eskel.” </p><p>“Uh, yes.”</p><p>Geralt heaved a deep sigh, and then slowly lifted his eyes from his plate. His brow furrowed, “Geralt. I - sorry. It’s been a long week,” he glanced down at his food, and then back up. “I usually eat alone.” </p><p>“Would you like me to leave?” Eskel shifted his foot from under the table.</p><p>“No. You’re not as irritating as the others.” He murmured, and those blues eyes flicked back up towards Eskel briefly, measuring his reaction.</p><p>“Interesting. I was just thinking exactly the same thing about you.”</p><p>“Hmm, perhaps we can help each other out then. Tolerable company,” Geralt glanced across sharply as a particularly bawdy joke caused loud, raucous laughter from the main group. “I was impressed with your endurance on the high walk. You’ll get through Test Week. I don’t think most of them will.” </p><p>“Likewise,” Eskel nudged the mash potato around his plate. “Looking forward to Belize?” As long as they passed this stage of training, the next took place in the Caribbean, in the jungles of Belize. It tested their physical and mental endurance in some of the most inhospitable conditions on the planet.</p><p>“Not really. Insects and snakes. Not a fan.” Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose, forehead creasing. <em> Headache. </em>It was rude to ask someone to stop talking, so Geralt bit down on the urge, but he needn’t have worried; Eskel seemed to understand and didn’t say another word until they were finished eating. He suggested a walk before bed, and the tension in Geralt’s neck and shoulders eased.</p><p>It wasn’t the only time Eskel <em> helped. </em> One evening, another of the recruits decided it would be <em> hilarious </em> to upend the contents of Geralt’s locker, and Eskel was there to put everything back in order with him. He didn’t even need guidance. Just knew where everything was meant to go. “Thank you.” Geralt said quietly, and Eskel just nodded as he slid the final tin of boot polish into place.</p><p>The following evening, Geralt found Eskel in the games room and flopped down on the sofa next to him. “You read a lot.” He commented lightly, blue eyes settled on the book in Eskel’s hands.</p><p>After spending a week in Geralt’s company, Eskel had learned that these statements of fact were his way of starting a conversation. “Yes. Books offer a brief reprieve from the world. I like poetry. Heard of Wordsworth?”</p><p>“Hm,” Geralt hummed - his way of acknowledging something when he struggled to find appropriate words, or needed more time to muster them - and tilted his head back to close his eyes. “Read it to me.” A pause. “Please.”</p><p>Eskel considered his companion with a soft smile. Geralt had found today taxing. Not because of the physical demand, but because he had to work with a large team. If anything, life in the special forces would suit him; he’d only ever have to deal with three other people at a time for most of it. Eskel propped open his book and cleared his throat, “Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he, that every man in arms should wish to be? —It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought among the tasks of real life, hath wrought upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: Whose high endeavours are an inward light.” The iambic pentameter and rhyming couplets gave the poem a soothing cadence, but Eskel could tell by the furrow of Geralt’s brow that he was absorbing and scrutinising each word. When Eskel finally read the end, he glanced over for a response. “This is the happy Warrior: this is he, whom every man in arms should wish to be.”</p><p>Geralt hummed again. “The soldier in your poem isn’t very realistic. Who would be ‘happy as a lover’ in the face of strife?”</p><p>Eskel smiled. “No. Wordsworth wrote it in 1806, based it on Lord Nelson. One of the great heroes of the time. He was romanticised even by his own contemporaries and had died the previous year.”</p><p>Geralt seemed to consider this carefully. “And the warrior will only go to heaven if he finds comfort in himself and in his cause,” he folded his arms across his chest. “Soldiers have to obey orders, go to war, even if they don’t agree with either. Does that mean you’re damned if in your heart you disagree?” </p><p>“In Wordsworth’s eyes, yes.” Eskel closed the book and left it to rest on his lap.</p><p>“Hm. Do you agree with Wordsworth? Is this the soldier you aspire to be? The Happy Warrior.”</p><p>It was Eskel’s turn to hum now. “In some aspects. I do believe that the best way to learn from suffering is to increase in tenderness, and if you can’t act honestly, then you shouldn’t act at all. But mostly, I think Wordsworth’s a blowhard,” he grinned. “I much prefer Lord Byron.”</p><p>Geralt nodded, and <em> smiled. </em> Eskel realised it was the first time he’d ever seen it. His blue eyes lit up, the corners crinkling ever so slightly, brow softening. <em>Enchanting.</em> And when he spoke, it was with more than a trace of warmth. “I’m glad. Goodnight, Eskel.” And with that, he rolled off the sofa and headed into the barracks to sleep.</p><p>Eskel realised, with no small amount of chagrin, that he now had a crush.  </p><p>***</p><p>They both passed ‘Test Week’. Five timed marches through Elan Valley and Brecon Beacons varying between twenty-three and twenty-eight kilometres, fully equipped with bergans weighing between forty and fifty-nine pounds, and rifles loaded with live ammunition, followed by the ‘long drag’; a sixty-four kilometre march that had to be completed in twenty hours. Eskel and Geralt crossed the finish line together in first place. The final part was the UKSF swimming test; high water entry wearing webbing and a rifle, followed by a twenty-five metre swim and kit handout and then a two hundred metre swim wearing combat ninety-five. The retrieval of the weight ten metres below the surface almost felt like child’s play.</p><p>It was a relief when Eskel was posted to the same four-man patrol as Geralt in Belize for the TTPs; weapons training, and standard operating procedures for various drills. The Caribbean jungle was stifling and unpleasant, but Geralt’s company made it tolerable for the six weeks they were there. His smiles came easily in close quarters, and he liked to talk to Eskel about his thoughts on everything from literature to Rugby; Geralt’s favourite sport. Mainly because there were strict rules of safety and etiquette that weren’t found in football. He hated rudeness and incivility, which was probably why he couldn’t stand the squaddies in Wales. In the sweaty, insect-ridden jungles of Belize with SAS instructors kicking their asses, Geralt and Eskel became close friends.</p><p>When they rotated back to England, there were a few days spare before foreign weapons training, and they spent them milling around the galleries and museums in London rather than in the nightclubs with the rest of the squad. Eskel talked Geralt through some of the famous paintings in the National Portrait Gallery and noticed several times that Geralt’s attention had drifted away from the image itself to <em> him. </em>That same soft smile, inquisitive blue eyes, thoughtful hum to acknowledge his words. They grabbed a beer in Covent Garden while they waited for their train, “So, any girls back home?” Geralt raised a brow.</p><p>“Not currently.” Eskel murmured into his beer. One thing he hadn’t told Geralt. <em> One thing </em>. It was so deeply ingrained in him to separate that part of his life that he dared not let it slip. It could be the end of his career in the armed forces. </p><p>“Hm. Me either.” Geralt replied, eyes casting around the pub. There was something a bit pointed to that statement, and Eskel opened his mouth to… ask? But in the end just drowned it with more beer. The conversation steered effortlessly away, and then Geralt dragged him over to the pool table and proceeded to absolutely thrash him for several rounds. They ended up sprinting across the terminal for their train, vaulting the barriers despite the shrieks of protest from the platform guard, because <em> fuck </em> getting a beasting from the staff sergeant.</p><p>***</p><p>Fourteen weeks of employment training followed. Two weeks of reconnaissance, two weeks of army combat survival, three weeks counter terrorism, one week signals, two weeks patrol and squadron training. It was gruelling. More than once Eskel wanted to drop it and return to Sandhurst to complete basic officer training, but every time he thought about throwing in the towel, Geralt was at his side to ease the burden. </p><p>Not only that, but their merry band of brothers was beginning to expand. Now they were entering the final phase of training, the ‘surviving’ recruits were pretty much lumped together on base. Geralt made an effort to get to know them, because being surrounded by people made Eskel feel less lonely. Coen, Aubry, Leo, Letho, Ben - his full name was Berengar because his mum was into dungeons and dragons, so he shortened it - and Gweld, the only Welshman of the group. They were pleasant enough - interesting, diverse, generally polite - but none held a candle to Eskel, and Geralt continued to ruminate over whether to… <em> ask.  </em></p><p>S.E.R.E training - Survive, Evade, Resist, Extract - was coming up, but before that it was time to head to RAF Brize Norton for parachute training. The first handful of jumps went well. It was the sixth one that didn’t. They listened to the safety briefing during the ascent, and Eskel tugged at the straps of his pack to test their security. When it came time to bail, he threw himself out shortly after Geralt. This bit he enjoyed. The free fall. There was something thrilling about the weightlessness of it; being able to turn and spin, with the world hurtling towards you. Eskel spread his arms and legs and closed his eyes briefly as the wind howled into his lungs. Too soon it was time to pull the cord for the chute; Eskel reached across his chest… and then caught sight of Geralt.</p><p>
  <em> His ‘chute should be open by now.  </em>
</p><p>He was several metres lower, but Eskel could see him wrestling with the straps, his body rotating and thrashing in the air. <em> It wasn’t working. </em>He could hear the puffs of panicked breathing through his coms and tucked his legs and arms to his sides to accelerate his dive. In seconds, he caught up with Geralt and yanked the knife from the back of his belt, legs wrapping at Geralt’s hips to keep them aligned even as they span ever lower. </p><p>
  <em> Couldn’t see the problem. Where was the fucking problem? </em>
</p><p>Eskel could see Geralt’s mouth moving, his voice faint across the headset. “Eskel, leave me. Pull your ‘chute. Pull your fucking ‘chute!” The ground was hurtling towards them. Suddenly very close, no longer the abstract concept it had seemed up in the clouds. Two large hands tried to shove him away, clawing for the strap on his chest, but he angled himself away and wrenched Geralt’s arms up. One of the cords had twisted around a strap, he slid his knife through, cut the canvas and yanked the cord. Geralt erupted out of his grip as his parachute deployed. At such a low altitude, every metre counted. Eskel ripped the cord of his own and the air currents pulled him up. The landing was still brutal, and he went cartwheeling through the dirt, tangled up in the cords and canvas billowing out behind him.</p><p>He must have hit his head, because the next thing he remembered was Geralt hauling him from the floor, their foreheads pressed together. Bleary hazel stared into panicked blue. “Speak to me, Eskel. <em> Speak. </em>”</p><p>“You know, I coulda’ broken my neck. Should always check a casualty first,” Eskel slurred, somehow <em>amused</em>. He could feel Geralt’s breath across his lips, and one hand smoothed up over his face. <em> Fucking handsome face. How was that even fair? </em>Yeah. Had definitely hit his head.</p><p>“Don’t do that. Don’t ever put yourself at risk for me.” One of Geralt’s thumbs drew over Eskel’s cheek, the pad of his glove rough over bruised skin. “Promise me.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Eskel smiled, “no.” And promptly fell unconscious. </p><p>They let him out of the infirmary after a couple of days, but Geralt didn’t leave his side for weeks. Not during drills, not during down time, and Eskel realised he <em> never </em> wanted Geralt to leave. Several times he nearly blurted it out. Confessed that he wanted more. That perhaps if they could just--, but every time he swallowed it down, because he just couldn’t deal with the inevitable rejection. He couldn’t handle the idea of his father’s expression of disgust reflected back at him from those blue eyes. So he said nothing.</p><p>***</p><p>They all passed. </p><p>The S.E.R.E training was unpleasant; thirty-six hours of interrogation, including stress positions, sleep deprivation, and mental and emotional grief, but they both endured and drank several glasses of stiff whiskey after. They were now officially part of the SAS. Within the next few days, they would head off for training in their chosen specialism. Eskel had chosen signals, with a secondary specialisation as a linguist, and Geralt had chosen FAC, with a secondary specialisation as a medic. It meant spending nearly a year apart at separate ends of the country - in Eskel’s case, in several different countries - so Geralt knew he had to say <em> something</em>. </p><p>On their final night, the entire crew donned civvies, left base and went into town to get drunk. Several hours were spent playing pool, darts, cards as well as a round of Ring of Fire that Eskel lost and had to drink the entire dirty pint for. He was staggeringly drunk but holding it well, and Geralt ruffled his hair on the way past as he headed to the toilet. </p><p>
  <em> Tonight. Tell him tonight.  </em>
</p><p>What Geralt <em> hadn’t </em> noticed were the emerald eyes of Letho following him away. Letho, who had nursed designs on Eskel since meeting him on their counter-terrorism course. Not something you could really pursue on base, especially not with a brown-haired, blue-eyed pretty boy as an obstacle all the time. The others all stumbled back towards the pool table, but Eskel was too busy trying to stop the room from spinning. Letho smirked, “You look fucked, mate.”</p><p>“If only,” Eskel slurred. “Oh, you mean drunk. Yeah. That. Did you really have to pour whiskey into it? Woulda’ been bad enough as a mix of beer and cider.”</p><p>“Nah, that would’ve just been a snake bite. Child’s play,” Letho slipped from his stool and into the cushion next to Eskel, one arm extending around Eskel’s shoulders to pull him close. “The others know you’re gay?”</p><p>Eskel tensed. “What?”</p><p>“Relax. Not gunna’ out you,” Letho placed his empty pint glass on the table and slid closer. Hemmed into the corner of the couch, there was nowhere for Eskel to go, so Letho tilted his head and pressed his lips close to his ear, arm dropping to encircle him fully. “If you’re serious about wanting that fuck. I’d be amenable.” It was at that moment, with Letho’s lips barely millimeters from Eskel’s skin, bodies pushed so close, that Geralt rounded the corner and saw. Blue locked with green, and Letho smirked, one eyebrow quirked. </p><p>Geralt sucked in a breath and darted out of sight. </p><p>
  <em> Too late. </em>
</p><p>As he slumped against the wall, his eyes stung and his chest constricted. He’d thought that - maybe that Eskel had -</p><p>Of course Eskel wouldn’t want him. Not when there were better offers. He couldn’t compete with anyone else. Certainly not Letho. Charming, interesting and just <em> better. </em> Letho who didn’t have to organise his life down to every detail; Letho who didn’t have to cut the labels out of his uniform and could hold a conversation with anyone effortlessly. Of course Eskel - intelligent, social, kind - would prefer someone… <em> normal. </em></p><p>Geralt stayed hidden for so long that he missed Eskel shove Letho away with a bitter snarl; his response slightly delayed because his intoxicated brain had struggled to fully comprehend what was happening. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Stop being an asshole.”</p><p>“Easy,” Letho raised his hands and then pushed himself to his feet. “Offer’s always there. Think on it.”</p><p>“Have to be really fucking desperate,” Eskel growled, and then tilted his head back. <em> Where the fuck was Geralt? </em></p><p>When the man in question finally appeared, Eskel grinned, and then furrowed his brow when the return smile was somewhat muted. “You alright?”</p><p>Geralt nodded. “Yeah. Just tired. Gonna’ head back.”</p><p>“Good idea. I think I’m gonna’ throw up.”</p><p>Eskel threw up twice on the way back to base. Geralt carried him while trying to figure out why his chest hurt so much.</p><p>***</p><p>Three months past, Eskel spoke to Geralt every week. Missed him like someone had taken a piece out of his heart and locked it away somewhere he couldn’t reach it. He woke up every morning feeling bereft. The resolve to <em> do </em> something about what he felt hardened. When he got back, he’d tell Geralt. There was something there. He was sure of it. He hadn’t just been <em> seeing </em> things. Just too cowardly to act on it. </p><p>Then Geralt started seeing someone. Yennefer Vengerburg. Eskel’s heart broke. But the way Geralt talked about it - it couldn’t be <em> serious. </em> Tumultuous, somewhat toxic, maybe. Probably wouldn’t last. In fact, they broke up several times while Eskel was abroad in Germany, and then some more when he spent a couple of months in Russia. Yet, they always seemed to get back together the following week. Like there was some kind of unavoidable magnetism drawing them back.</p><p>As Eskel ticked off month number nine on the calendar pinned up in his quarters, he received a text from Geralt.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Geralt</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 12:01 PM</span><br/>
<span class="text">Call me when you can.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>“Hey, Geralt. What’s up?”</p><p><em> “Eskel, I’ve…” </em> He sounded strained. <em> “Yen’s pregnant.”</em></p><p>Eskel fell onto his bunk. His legs just gave up. Geralt must’ve heard the thump on the other end of the phone.</p><p>
  <em>“Eskel. You alright?”</em>
</p><p>“Y - yeah, fine,” Eskel covered the mouthpiece and took a steadying breath - several in fact - before returning the phone to his ear. “Well, fuck, man, congratulations.”</p><p>
  <em>“Thanks. I’m - uh - I’m shitting myself. She’s definitely keeping it. And, I’m - umm - I’m actually glad she is. Never had a dad, so, bar’s quite low. Can’t do much worse, right?”</em>
</p><p>Eskel smiled despite the tears running down his face. “Geralt, you’re going to be an amazing father. Don’t give me that bullshit.”</p><p>
  <em> “Could use some back up.”</em>
</p><p>“You know I’ve always got your back,” Eskel dropped the phone again, rubbing the sleeve of his shirt angrily through his eyes and sniffling back the choke in his voice. “Geralt, I…” Eskel’s jaw quivered and he sniffed. “...I’m pleased for you.”</p><p><em>... “Thanks. I’ll see you in a few months, brother.” </em> The phone went dead.</p><p>Cirilla was born seven months later and Eskel was named godparent at the christening. He loved the little gremlin instantly.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Written to the tune of (and thus titled after) "What Hurts The Most" by State of Mine.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Captain Rivia (E)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Just going for a run.” Eskel whispered as he nuzzled into Jaskier’s hair, receiving a tired grunt and a lazy pat to the side of his face. It was five-thirty. Jaskier didn’t <em> recognise </em> the existence of such an early hour of the morning. These damn military types and their early starts. He mumbled something about making sure Eskel <em> couldn’t </em> run next time, rolled over and fell back to sleep. It was already warm, with the sun cresting above the sloping rooftops of the suburbs sprawling into the distance. Eskel’s pace was slow - plodding almost - but he grinned the whole way, pausing to stretch on a bridge that crossed the Cam. There was something to be said for the beauty of ol’ Blighty during the springtime, and Eskel paused to admire the daffodils sprouting along the riverbanks. By the time he walked back through the door, it was nearly gone seven.</p><p>“Getting slow, old man,” Lambert drawled from where he sat on the kitchen counter, a bowl of Weetabix propped in one splayed hand. “Was about to send out a search party.”</p><p>“Wasn’t aware I was training for Test Week. Could still outrun you even on my worst day.” Eskel tugged his AirPods from his ears and slipped them back into their case; he caught the bottle of water thrown in his direction as he walked past and headed up the stairs. “Jaskier awake?”</p><p>“Nope. Thought I’d let him sleep. Sounded like he earned it last night.” Lambert smirked, and Eskel decidedly <em> did not </em> look at him as he walked up the winding staircase and disappeared into his room. </p><p>Sure enough, Jaskier was sprawled out on top of the covers, facedown. Brown hair tousled, arms stretched out so far that his hands almost hung off the edge of the bed, and legs spread just to ensure he occupied as much of the mattress as possible.<em> Shame he had his underwear on. </em> Eskel undid the strap of his watch, glancing at the time before he cast it onto the cabinet, and then sat down on the edge of the bed. After a twelve mile run, he needed a shower, but Jaskier was going to be late if he slept any longer. He rested his fingers lightly on the back of Jaskier’s knee, circling them slowly up the inside of his thigh with a featherlight touch until he reached the line of his boxers and stopped. Jaskier groaned, “Don’t stop.”</p><p>“You need to get up, or you’re going to miss your first lecture.” Eskel scratched his nails over one pert ass cheek, and then stood to begin stripping off his t-shirt and shorts.</p><p>“And what do I need to do to convince you to stay in bed with me all day?” Jaskier rolled onto his side and slid a hand over the front of his boxers, fingers curling around the thickening line of his erection for Eskel’s viewing pleasure. Well, who wouldn’t when Eskel’s chest <em> glistened </em> like that? He looked even better in the early morning light, and Jaskier inspected the thin, jagged lines of the scars down his broad back as he turned. </p><p>“Next reading week you’ve got yourself a deal, but I need to get Professor Daniels’ printing done. Go get some breakfast, I’ll only be ten minutes.” Eskel disappeared and Jaskier pouted. The opportunity was too good to miss. He wriggled out of his boxers and waited until he heard the splash of water and the grate of the shower door before he slipped into the bathroom. Then he just <em> took a moment </em> to watch water splash over Eskel’s shoulders, filtering down the curves of the ass that had ridden him so expertly the night before. The cubicle was <em> easily </em> big enough for two, and Jaskier tugged the door open and plastered himself to that broad back, tongue flicking out to lap chastely at damp skin.</p><p>Eskel grunted in surprise, arms splaying and palms pressing to the walls as Jaskier’s hands appeared at his chest and then slid over his abdomen. He could feel the erection pressed against the line of his ass, and Jaskier worked his shaft to full hardness with firm, efficient strokes, his other hand cupping and massaging his balls. “Jaskier, I - <em> fuck. </em>” Two fingers pressed along his perineum and he shifted his feet further apart to give greater access. The hold was gentle now, teasing, and he rocked his hips into it.</p><p>“Mm, you’re so hot,” Jaskier rose onto his toes and dragged his teeth along Eskel’s neck, possessive. “No no, keep your hands where they are. Gonna’ get you all cleaned up and ready for the day.” He plucked the shower gel from the metal rack at the side and filled his palm. Water splashed down over his face, plastering his hair to his head as he nudged Eskel forward and smoothed soap over his torso; he indulged in a quick squeeze of that barreled chest, and pushed his fingers firmly into all the lines of his abdomen. </p><p>Eskel groaned quietly, head hanging between his shoulders, as Jaskier progressed down between his thighs, still solid from their run. He’d <em> never </em> been touched with this level of tenderness, and it made him weak at the knees. The slow rut of Jaskier’s cock against the cleft of his ass made him want to spread his legs and bend over, because it had felt so <em> fucking good </em> last night. As if sensing his desire for more stimulation, Jaskier’s hands smoothed back over his waist and kneaded into the globes of his ass, fingers teasing down to massage the outside of his rim. They didn’t dip inside - soap was <em> not </em> a good replacement for a decent lube - but the brief touch was enough, and Eskel’s cock twitched as he built towards a climax. “<em>Jaskier.</em>” Faint, probably sounded needy, but he didn’t care.</p><p>“Turn,” Jaskier whispered and released his grip long enough for Eskel to face him; he accepted the deep, passionate kiss pressed to his lips and swept his hands up the graceful arch of Eskel’s back as the soap suds slid between them. “Mm. Shame I didn’t think ahead. I’ve got one of the best waterproof toys.” He mumbled into Eskel’s lips and returned the smile with a mischievous one of his own, before dropping onto his knees to take that gorgeous cock into his mouth. His lips barely got halfway down the shaft before the head hit the back of his throat and he moaned at the thought of it stretching him open. <em> Why did it have to be a work day? </em>Jaskier swirled his tongue, tip catching across the frenulum and earning an awed gasp. He gripped the base firmly as his mouth worked the half he could fit, slurping and sucking loudly, warming up, before finally sliding Eskel carefully into his throat.</p><p>“Jaskier, I’m - I’m close, s-stop.” Eskel tried to draw out, but the hand caressing the tense muscle of his thigh gripped and pulled him back into place. He came down Jaskier’s throat with a muffled grunt, face pressed into the slope of his own bicep. When he looked down, the two blue eyes that gazed up at him were darkened with lust, and Jaskier tilted his head back to lap at the tip of his cock in search of the last few drops of come before it washed away. “Where the fuck have you been all my life?”</p><p>Jaskier popped back up to his full height again, hands planted on the wall either side of Eskel’s head. “There’s an answer I could give, but it’ll make you squick.” </p><p>“What - what does squick mean?”</p><p>“Yep, there you have it.” Jaskier chuckled and lavished kisses down the scarred side of Eskel’s face. “Pass the shampoo?” Eskel washed him and Jaskier was sure to bend, flex and tease as much as physically possible as those big hands slid over his body. After several attempts to rinse all the soap away, Eskel growled and crowded him against the cold tiles to keep him still, one hand wrapped around his cock. Jaskier rutted into Eskel’s palm with wanton abandon, hands braced on the wall to keep himself pressed against the firm chest at his back, and he moaned as he watched his cock spill over the thick fingers that held it. “God, this is the <em> best </em> Monday morning I’ve ever had.” Jaskier husked, head tilting back to Eskel’s shoulder.</p><p>With a wry grin, Eskel nipped the arch of Jaskier’s ear, rinsed his hands and then tugged him out onto the bath mat to dry. When they finally appeared for breakfast, Lambert glanced at them from the sofa with a quiet huff. “So glad I have my own bathroom.”</p><p>***</p><p>Triss stared at Jaskier with an open mouth. “I can’t <em> believe </em> it. I <em> told </em> you not to do anything stupid while I was gone.”</p><p>“In my defence, <em> he </em> set things in motion. I was merely a very willing accomplice.” Jaskier grinned across his iced latte, before slurping a mouthful through the paper straw. </p><p>“So, was he - ?” She wriggled her eyebrows, and Jaskier responded with an incredulous laugh.</p><p>“I don’t kiss and tell.”</p><p>“Yes, you do. Spill.”</p><p>“He was an absolute gentleman. Paid for every date, despite virulent protest. <em> Asked </em> to kiss me the first time. His body is gorgeous, and - .” He spread his hands apart on the bench, palms upright, and both of Triss’ eyebrows leapt to her hairline. </p><p>“Well, you lucky boy.”</p><p>“I know. Gold mine.”</p><p>“And what about the PTSD? Is he - alright? Is there anything, y’know - ?” She was trying to be sensitive - probably shouldn’t be asking - but this was her best friend and she was worried.</p><p>“I haven’t seen anything, to be honest. Are you sure you read the notes right?”</p><p>She glowered at him, brow set. “Yes. Not like I’ve been doing this for several years already or anything. Anyway, I’ve got a seminar and then a shift at the bar. Just be careful, Jas. Talk to him a lot, ask how he is, make sure you’re both comfortable with everything.” A quick kiss pressed to his cheek, and she was gone. </p><p>Jaskier spent through the next few weeks walking in the clouds. It felt like he was the leading star in an American sitcom; everything was just so perfect. His grades were on the up, and when he accidentally dropped the word <em> boyfriend </em> into conversation with Eskel, he hummed and looked extremely bashful. <em> And then agreed. </em>So there was that. It was… official? Was that even a thing that existed in the twenty-first century? </p><p>He spent far too much time at Eskel's flat. A lot of the time they <em>studied</em> - Eskel’s thesis was well underway and he had a progress meeting with his panel coming up - but they also <em>fucked</em>. It wasn’t just sex though, Jaskier got the distinct impression he was being <em>made</em> <em>love to</em> every time<em>; </em>Eskel was potentially the most <em>giving</em> partner Jaskier had ever enjoyed. Their sessions ended breathless and sweaty, but always with gentle affection and intimacy. Sometimes Jaskier felt a bit... overwhelmed by it. In between, they <em>talked</em> endlessly. Music, poetry, sports - although Jaskier mainly listened to Lambert and Eskel argue about Rugby in that respect, Lambert was a ‘Quinns’ fan, Eskel supported ‘Wasps’, no, Jaskier had no idea either - and everything in between. </p><p>Even Lambert, prickly and sullen, tolerated Jaskier’s presence with only the scarcest bit of snark here and there; he continued to cook when asked and Jaskier enjoyed some of the finest meals he’d ever tasted. There didn’t seem to be a limit to Lambert’s repertoire; Jaskier would commit legitimate murder if it meant he could eat the teriyaki chicken and toasted kale that Lambert cooked for their Kung Fu movie night every single day. Life was… <em> good.  </em></p><p>***</p><p>May drew to an end and in a couple of weeks Jaskier would be turning the big two-oh. Triss insisted they plan a massive party in the dormitory, and Jaskier saw it as the <em> perfect </em>opportunity to display his extremely dashing partner to the world. A couple of hours before his next lecture, he headed to the English department with a packet of hobnobs and a thermos of tea, because he knew Eskel had left without his that morning from the irritable text he’d received informing him of such. Eskel sans tea was a bear with a sore head. Without knocking, Jaskier nudged the handle of Eskel’s office door down with his elbow and erupted in. “I come bearing gifts…” His voice trailed off as he looked up.</p><p>Eskel had company. </p><p>The man standing in front of the bay window wore a full military uniform, despite the balmy temperature outside. Navy blue, with accented light blue belt wrapped at his waist that matched the blue stripe down the side of his trousers. Jaskier assumed he must be one of Eskel’s old superiors because his hair, although cut in a relatively modern style - shaved at the sides around his ears, and long over the top - was pure white. <em> How wrong he was. </em> As soon as Eskel’s visitor turned to look towards him, Jaskier recognised those intense blue eyes from the photograph on the bookshelf. His chest was adorned with medals and brocade, and everything from the positioning of his tie to the buffed shine on his shoes was <em> immaculate. </em> “Ah, Jaskier,” Eskel stood from where he was perched on the edge of his desk, “this is G - .”</p><p>“Gerald, right? From Eskel’s old regiment.” Perhaps it was because he was so flabbergasted by how staggeringly good-looking the man was, or perhaps it was the intensity of that stare, but Jaskier caught sight of the English professor’s door plaque in passing and it supplanted the new arrival’s real name, <em> which he knew because Eskel had told him before</em>. He extended his right hand, hobnobs and thermos clutched to his chest with his left.</p><p><em> Geralt </em> stared down at the offered hand in silence, and then slowly lifted his eyes back up to Jaskier’s face, his lips set in a frown. The disapproval was so painfully obvious that Jaskier’s fingers flinched back into his palm. Geralt said nothing for what felt like an eternity, and when he <em> did </em> it wasn’t to Jaskier; he placed his cap back on his head as he glanced at Eskel. “I’ll see you this evening.” And with that, he walked past the arm that was now sinking back to Jaskier’s side, pausing by the door only to flick a plug switch to the off position, and disappeared into the corridor. </p><p>“Well, um -,” Jaskier looked at Eskel, who was clearly amused. “What?”</p><p>“It’s <em> Geralt, </em>” he murmured. “You got his name wrong.” </p><p>“Oh, <em> shit. </em>And you were introducing him, and -,” Jaskier slapped a hand to his face, and trudged forward to deposit his offering on Eskel’s desk. “I’m used to people glaring at me with disapproval, but that was a whole other level.”</p><p>“He’s an intense man,” Eskel nodded. “However, it’s quite easy to win back some favour.”</p><p>“Tell me your secrets. I’ve just about got Lambert tolerating my presence; I don’t want all that effort to go to waste because I got baffled by a man in uniform.”</p><p>Eskel blinked, and didn’t answer immediately. <em> Baffled? </em>Overthinking. He cleared his throat. “Galaxy.”</p><p>“Galaxy? As in… the chocolate?”</p><p>“Yes. Come for breakfast on Saturday before our trip to London. Bring him a big bar of Galaxy chocolate, address him as <em> Geralt</em>, apologise, and he’ll reset back to his default level of general disdain.” </p><p>“He has a default level of disdain?”</p><p>“Yes,” Eskel grinned. “Every human being starts off at the very bottom of his estimation, and you work your way up with good deeds and perseverance.” </p><p>“Right,” Jaskier rubbed his eyes. “So, is he home for a few months, or - ?”</p><p>“Captain Geralt Rivia is now officially retired,” Eskel plucked the thermos from the desk and carried it over towards his usual cup by the windowsill. “His change of command ceremony was this morning, followed by a parade to mark his years of service.” <em> And he hated every minute of it.  </em></p><p>“Aren’t family and friends usually invited to that sort of thing?” </p><p>“Yes,” Eskel sighed and walked back over with a full mug of tea. “He requested that we didn’t attend.” But he’d come straight here, and Eskel picked up the small, felt-covered box Geralt had chucked onto his desk and turned it over in his hands. It contained a medal of valour. </p><p>Jaskier studied Eskel closely, watched his expression grow pensive, before he finally stepped forward and wrapped his arms about that broad chest. He hadn’t asked about what happened four - nearly five - years ago beyond what Eskel had offered readily, but if both Eskel and Lambert bore such grievous scars - both physical and mental - then it stood to reason that Geralt did as well. Even if his wounds weren’t immediately obvious, Jaskier was certain he had just as much healing to do. “He’ll be fine. He has you and Lambert.”</p><p>“Mm. Yes, he does.” Eskel placed the box down on the desk, along with his mug of tea, and encircled Jaskier with both arms, face burying in the softness of his hair. “Thank you for the tea and biscuits.”</p><p>“You’re welcome, hot stuff.” Jaskier buckled down for a good making out session and pressed himself between Eskel’s thighs, hands dropping to knead shamelessly at the firm ass pushed up by the edge of the desk. It took him all of two minutes to coax the first quiet gasp, muted to avoid disturbing the good professor next door.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Welcome Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eskel arrived home late that night. He preferred to leave work at <em> work </em> when he could, and the huge pile of undergraduate essays that Professor Daniels had dumped on his desk three days ago was finally finished. William Shakespeare would be rolling in his grave had he read some of the interpretations Eskel had. Time to purge the literary sacrilege from his brain with a glass of whiskey and a few chapters of the Da Vinci Code. </p><p>He closed the door softly behind him, and the silent flickering of the television drew his attention to the seating area. Geralt was still awake, watching the news. The sound was muted and the subtitles flickered by in butchered English as the presenter ran through the main headlines. Eskel hung his jacket up and chucked his door keys onto a lamp table before heading over. </p><p>“Not tired?” Eskel sat down next to Geralt on the sofa and clasped his hands between his knees. He was still in his uniform. Shoes, belts, jacket; everything. The only thing missing was the cap, which had been placed on the coffee table. Geralt leaned forward, a beer clasped between two hands, half finished. He sat ramrod straight on the edge of the cushion rather than lounging back.</p><p>“Jet lagged still,” Geralt offered quietly, his eyes not leaving the screen. “Your partner is very young, Eskel. And loud.”</p><p>“Yes,” Eskel rubbed the back of his head. “He’s sorry for blustering in like he did. He gets over-excited.” </p><p>“Mmhm.” </p><p>“He’s coming over on Saturday before our trip to London. If you could accept his apology when he gives it, I’d be very grateful.”</p><p>Geralt drew his gaze away from the news now; blue eyes were soft as they found weary hazel. It was always easy to <em> look </em> at Eskel. Never felt like an effort. Perhaps it was because there was no judgement there; the familiarity was warm and comfortable. “For you, of course.” He sipped his beer and dropped his attention to the middle distance.</p><p>“You know, if you changed out of your uniform, you would be more comfortable. All of your clothes are still in your wardrobe.” Eskel indicated the mezzanine with a flick of his head. He knew why Geralt was still in his uniform. Taking it off for the last time was hard. Very hard. It was a part of you that had defined your life for years, and its removal was like cutting a piece of yourself away. Then you had to find some way to rebuild without it. A terrifying prospect when the parts of you that were left to work with were vulnerable and in need of care. Eskel lifted his rear briefly off the sofa and pulled the black box from his back pocket. “You left your medal in my office. You need to at least look at it. It’s an acknowledgement of all you’ve done.”</p><p>“Do you remember that poem you read to me eighteen years ago? The Happy Warrior.” Geralt leaned forward and placed his beer down on a coaster, which he adjusted until its straight edge was parallel to that of the table.</p><p>“Yes. Wordsworth. I seem to remember you thought it was a load of crap.” Eskel threw his arm over the back of the couch and folded one leg over the other. It had been a long day of poetry and literary discourse, but Geralt thought so deeply and profoundly about things that Eskel couldn’t help but engage with him.</p><p>“I’ve been thinking about the soldier in it quite a lot recently,” Geralt laced his fingers together, forearms sloped across his knees. “The poem ends with his death, doesn’t it?”</p><p>“Well, the soldier only seeks acceptance and reward in heaven, so I suppose, in a way, yes,” Eskel paused. “Remember, it was written <em> after </em> Lord Nelson’s death. It was a commemoration piece as well as a celebration of what it was to fight for king and country.” Alarm bells were ringing in Eskel’s head, and he glanced up towards Geralt’s room. When Lambert had first arrived home, he’d removed a handgun and several knives from his bags on the first night. All illegal. Geralt was a stickler for procedure, but Eskel's chest had now knotted with the anxiety of this conversation.</p><p>“I think it’s more than that,” Geralt didn’t look up. “Wordsworth’s soldier dies so that he can be immortalised as a hero. If he had survived, then he would’ve become problematic.”</p><p>“In what way?”</p><p>“A hero is defined by his sacrifice. Something he has given, but sacrifice isn’t beautiful or romantic as defined in the poem. It’s ugly and it leaves marks. If the hero lives, then those he saved are left with the ugliness of the deed he has committed for them. It’s a debt they can never repay in kind, and they can’t stand to look at it, because they are responsible in part for the wreck before them. Therefore, the hero is problematic.” Geralt didn’t speak this much to <em> anyone </em> else. Not Yen, not Lambert, not his mother when she was alive, not his superiors, not his squaddies, not even his beloved Ciri <em> . </em> Just Eskel. He’d spent a year and a half not talking unless issuing orders, negotiating strategies or conducting meetings. His soul had been… <em> silent </em> . But now, he wanted to tell Eskel everything. But he couldn’t. <em> Not everything. </em> Not now. But perhaps, <em> just enough. </em>“So he has to die. The people can have their heroic soldier, his romanticised sacrifice, but not the unpleasant reality that something had to break so that they could go on living. They don’t have to look at the marks.”</p><p>Eskel placed the box down carefully on the coffee table. “You have many people that love you, Geralt. We don’t care about the marks. We’re just grateful to have you.” He spoke softly, longing to pull Geralt into his arms and hold him close. Everything inside him would be burning. He’d want to scream, lash out. Eskel <em> had. </em> Lambert <em> had. </em> But Geralt <em> hadn’t. </em> Not when he’d returned from a year in captivity, not when they’d <em> told </em> him he now needed to retire and get the medical care he needed, and <em> try </em> to live a normal, civilian life. He’d given enough. </p><p>Geralt looked up from the floor, his mouth open to say something, but the moment escaped him. He pushed himself slowly to his feet. “Thank you, Eskel. I’m glad to be home,” he picked up the beer bottle and his cap, but left the medal where it was. “I’ll look forward to meeting your partner for the first time on Saturday.” His way of indicating that the slate would be clean.</p><p>Eskel smiled and rubbed his eyes. He took a pint of squash with him to bed, but sleep escaped him. </p><p>***</p><p>Geralt took his uniform off methodically and hung it up the same way he had done for the last eighteen years. The shirt partially buttoned, the tie wrapped around the hanger, the jacket over the top, the trousers folded neatly over the bar of the hanger, belts draped over the chest of the blazer; he hooked it onto the door of the wardrobe and stared at it. Except this wasn’t like the last eighteen years, was it? This was the last time. He hadn’t just undressed, he’d stripped away a part of his identity to be mothballed in storage. </p><p>Coarse fingertips ran over starched fabric, metal buckles and shining brocade, and then he turned to look at himself in the full length mirror near the door. It was so easy to strip away the uniform. The bit that symbolised the heroism, the pride and the romantic face of the military; the part that made women swoon; that they paraded before the queen and on television. <em> And yet look at what he couldn’t strip away. </em> Geralt examined his scarred torso. <em> The marks. </em>A year in captivity with extremists had left plenty of them, as had eighteen years fighting in the most inhospitable environments on the planet. These were just the ones he could see. The ones on his skin. Geralt’s fingertips brushed over the cold, polished glass, followed then by his forehead. He stared into his own eyes, trying to wade through the misery to find the will to persevere.</p><p>He’d been so ready. <em> So ready. </em> Without the military hanging over them, without the demands that came with a career characterised by death and sacrifice, with <em> nothing </em> in their way. He had the words rehearsed - <em> written down - </em> so that he didn’t mess it up. And then he’d seen a picture on social media. Eskel, drinking a beer with a young man astride his lap, an arm loped around his shoulders and a huge beaming smile; the look in Eskel’s eye, full of affection. Even Geralt had seen it. It wasn’t the only image. Not a fluke. In a gallery, outside a cinema, in a pub, out to dinner. <em> Eskel had found someone. </em> Someone <em> staggeringly </em> beautiful, with tousled brown hair and expressive blue eyes. Someone who reflected Eskel’s radiant soul in human form. <em> Jaskier.  </em></p><p>How could Geralt - scarred, broken, abnormal - compete with someone who blazed brighter than the sun?</p><p>Geralt spent the night disassembling, cleaning and reassembling the same handgun on repeat. The routine and procedure was comforting, as was the weight of the metal against his palm and the clip of ammunition on his bedside table.</p><p>***</p><p>It was Saturday. Jaskier had the Galaxy. He also had a bottle of Schloer for Lambert, because a little extra schmoozing with Eskel’s prickliest brother never went amiss. It was seven forty-five in the morning, but Jaskier could already hear the music through the open windows of Eskel’s flat as he walked through the garage underneath and up the stairs to the front door. Jaskier was barely awake, and bounced up and down on the balls of his feet before he rang the doorbell.</p><p>Geralt answered. Geralt, who wore nothing but a pair of black boxers and a deep frown. Jaskier’s mouth fell open and his eyes dropped <em> immediately </em> to drink it all in. He was leaner than Eskel, but there was still <em> a lot </em> that had been disguised by his uniform. Thick biceps and solid thighs, a toned chest and abdomen covered in a dusting of dark hair - <em> collar didn’t match the cu--oh, fuck off brain </em> - and that was definitely the outline of <em> quite something </em>in his - fuck, don’t stare. “Ahh, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat with a quick cough. “I - umm, we met the other day, and I got your name wrong. I’m sorry about that.” </p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt inclined his head and stepped to the side so that Jaskier could enter, and then blinked at the huge bar of chocolate that was pulled from the bag on the man’s back. “Thank you.” He took it carefully, and pushed the door closed.</p><p>“Eskel said it was your favourite, so - ,” Jaskier swept his hands as if to say ‘ta-da’ and then quickly fled to the sanctity of the kitchen and the better known chaos of Lambert, who was busy scrambling eggs in a bowl on the countertop. “The usual for you. Contributing to your early onset diabetes.”</p><p>“My attitude offsets the sweetness. Put it in the fridge.” Lambert waved the wooden spoon in his hand across the kitchen. The joke was his expression of gratitude.</p><p>“Why chocolate?” Jaskier’s voice lowered, barely audible above the music, and his head tilted towards Geralt.</p><p>“Ration packs,” Lambert offered, and then when Jaskier stared at him blankly, huffed in irritation. “In ration packs everything has a purpose. You have the standard boil in a bag shit that’s meant to give you lots of calories, and occasionally they’re generous enough to give you some other niceties. But the biscuits constipate you for when you really don’t have time to go, and the chocolate does the opposite… very well and very quickly.”</p><p>“Oh, right,” Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “So Eskel and Geralt…”</p><p>“Have an obsession with biscuits and chocolate that won’t fuck with their bowels, yeah. Go sit down, you’re crowding my work space. He won’t bite unless you ask nicely.” Lambert smirked and turned his back to check the bacon. He grilled it because Geralt liked bacon crispy rather than coated in fat and grease, and the eggs had to be scrambled because he got edgy about shit touching on his plate when he could help it. <em> Fucking high maintenance was what Geralt was. </em></p><p>“Geralt, please tell me you didn’t answer the front door in your pants.” Eskel padded down the stairs with a dressing gown in his hand.</p><p>“He did. I saw.” Lambert offered brightly, and passed Eskel the scissors when he began rooting through the drawers. Eskel cut the tags out of the plush fleece material and then hung it down in front of Geralt’s face until he took it and pulled it on.</p><p>Jaskier could now sit safely without having to fight the urge to stare - or so he thought - and perched in one of the armchairs, head tilted to accept the kiss pressed to his cheek and then nod when he was offered a cup of tea. The television was muted, so he occupied himself with the subtitles for a moment while trying to study Geralt from the corner of his eye. Eventually, the man in question stared back at him with a raised eyebrow and Jaskier <em> opened his mouth again </em>, “I - uh, love the way you just sit there and brood.”</p><p>
  <em> What the fuck had he just said? Why had he even opened his mouth? Oh my fucking God. </em>
</p><p>His mistake was communicated to him by a set brow and a long suffering sigh, but thankfully he was saved from any further disapproval by the doorbell. Eskel was already on his feet and answered it with a broad smile on his face. A gangly, blonde-haired teenager leapt across the threshold into his arms and he swung her around, “Ciri!”</p><p>“Uncle E!” She crooned and squeezed his huge shoulders in her arms, “Man, it’s been too long.”</p><p>“Yes. It has. I think you’re actually several inches taller.” He placed her down and stepped to the side as she charged by with an excited squeal, because Geralt had just risen from the sofa. She launched into his arms with such force that he staggered before he too lifted her up effortlessly with a full-chested, hearty laugh. It transformed his entire face. His eyes <em> glowed, </em> and Jaskier’s mouth fell open as he stared. Eskel leaned outside to grab her weekend suitcase; Yen was nowhere to be seen, obviously.</p><p>Ciri was talking at approximately three thousand miles per hour. “How was Afghanistan? Did you get the bad guys? Are you famous now? Did you get a medal? Did you bring me anything back? What guns did you shoot? Did you get to call in an airstrike? Mum said that if you were still in a dressing gown and pants that I should call you a lazy bum.” Then she noticed Jaskier. “Dad, who’s that?”</p><p>“This is Jaskier,” Geralt rumbled, and finally placed her down. “He’s Uncle Eskel’s, uh - .”</p><p>“<em>Boyfriend?” </em>Ciri offered, her mouth dropped open and she cast a quick glance at said uncle who confirmed with a nod of the head before ducking into the fridge to find the milk. “Well, damn. Hi, Jaskier. I’m Ciri. You look like the sixth formers at my school.”</p><p>“It’s the skincare routine. Pleasure to meet you Ciri.” He caught Lambert keeling over in silent laughter and Eskel’s resulting death glare from the corner of his eye. Once Ciri had shaken his hand, she sprinted - because apparently nothing was done at normal speed - into the kitchen area, but stopped short before throwing herself at Lambert.</p><p>He raised an eyebrow, expression blank. “Oh, so you remembered I exist, Rivia.”</p><p>“I always save the best ‘til last, Murphy,” she replied, evenly. “Sheeran was low. I had ‘Shape of You’ haunting my dreams for three days.”</p><p>“You Bieber’d me. I had to bring out the heavy artillery.” </p><p>“So, I suppose we’re even now.”</p><p>“I’d say so.” And then they exchanged their usual secret shake - palm, back of the hand, knuckles, finger guns - and Lambert bellowed at the Google Home Hub. “Google, play Project Ciri.” <em> Playing Project Ciri on Spotify. </em>The first tune was ‘Black Skinhead’ by Kanye West, and Lambert raised an eyebrow, but bopped around with her anyway, pausing only when he needed to stir the egg around the pan (because only fuckwits made scrambled egg in a fucking microwave). </p><p>“Google, stop,” Eskel barked at the third iteration of the word ‘coon’. “Ciri, seriously? The man’s a moron. Firstly, the Spartans were Greek, not Roman. It should be ‘I keep it three hundred, like the Greeks’. And then, just <em> everything else. </em>” He plonked a glass of fresh orange juice on the counter for her, and deposited Lambert’s coffee by the stove.</p><p>“Eskel, Eskel, Eskel,” Lambert shook his head. “This is West’s expression of frustration and it references black history throughout. ‘By any means necessary’, Malcolm X. Yeezus, West’s character, expresses his frustration at the inaction of his own people, and mutates the external idea of God and internalises it. West is the twenty-first century Lord By--,” he looked up just as the words were about to exit his mouth, knew his <em> life </em> was at stake if he finished that sentence from the look in Eskel’s eye, and looked back to the eggs, “You just need to appreciate the <em> art, </em>Eskel.” Kanye West was a twat. Lambert just liked stirring Eskel into a literary fervour. </p><p>Ciri was rolling against the counters in silent laughter, and piped up. “To be fair, Dad’s giving me death glares because it uses the ‘f’ word. Maybe we should change it to something the oldies can stomach.”</p><p>“Hey Google, play ‘Eskel’s the campest gay in the village’ playlist,” Lambert called, and Spotify dutifully changed track. Dolly Parton’s ‘9 to 5’ blasted through the speakers and Lambert crooned along with her, jiving, swaying and bopping with Ciri who happily joined in, snagging a spare spatula to use as a microphone. “<em>Workin' 9 to 5, what a way to make a livin', barely gettin' by, it's all takin' and no givin', they just use your mind and they never give you credit.</em>”</p><p>Jaskier watched all of this in mute awe. There were several things to note. Firstly, Geralt’s face was still soft, his lips quirked into an easy smile and brow smooth as he watched not only Ciri, but the rest of his family, and it was alarmingly attractive; secondly, that this little spitfire appeared to bring life and light to all three of the men in the room; thirdly, Lambert could <em> sing</em>, <em> oh my God, could the man sing, </em> even if he was deliberately putting on a folk twang to imitate Dolly. And <em> finally, </em> that he was <em> hungry </em> and happily stepped up to the dinner table when Lambert started bringing plates over.</p><p>It was a full English. Sausages, bacon, scrambled egg, baked beans, black pudding, with the fried bread or toast choice left up to them as Lambert dumped a final serving platter in the middle. Dolly finished, and the Backstreet Boys chimed in with ‘I want it that way’ and Eskel barked at the speaker to mute it. “Do I look like a walking stereotype to you?”</p><p>“If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, has music tastes like a duck. I did have a classical playlist set up for you, but what with the car, the flat aesthetic, the obsession with nineteenth century literature and art, I thought you were one man-sandwich away from being Hannibal Lecter as it was, so I binned it,” Lambert shrugged, and then swiped at Ciri’s elbows when he noticed they were planted on the table. “Manners.” </p><p>Ciri rolled her eyes, but did as she was told and tucked in. “So Dad, we going out into Cambridge today?”</p><p>“Yes. Your mum said you had something to tell me.”</p><p>Ciri suddenly slowed. It was noticeable because of how voraciously she’d been dicing up her sausages. “Uh, did she? Yeah, well… we can go play laser tag and then get some slushie, and we’ll talk.” Glances were cast across the table and then Geralt made a discreet gesture to Eskel with his hands. Jaskier recognised it as BSL, but wasn’t versed in it himself. Eskel shook his head once and Geralt sighed before grabbing his cutlery to begin eating. The conversation veered from music to school, and Geralt listened attentively as his daughter recounted her grades - all <em> very </em> good - and her changing friendship groups. Jaskier watched each of them in turn between mouthfuls, but especially Eskel, who kept glancing across at Geralt with a mixture of fondness and concern. It was an odd combination, and Jaskier wanted to slip into his lap and hold him so that he could talk about it.</p><p>As plates began to clear, Lambert shifted in his seat and yanked his phone as it buzzed up a notification. He sighed through his nose as he unlocked it; his eyes blew wide and his mouth fell open. Eskel tilted his head, “What’s up?”</p><p>“It’s - uh, a notification from PoF, umm.”</p><p>Jaskier bounced in excitement. “Is it a good one? It’s a good one, isn’t it?” </p><p>“Wait, PoF - as in Plenty of Fish?” Ciri leapt from her seat and reached for Lambert’s phone, but he put a hand squarely in the centre of her face to keep her at bay as she scrambled.</p><p>“Wait, wait, let me do a quick dick check,” he thumbed through the photos quickly, and with each one Jaskier watched the disbelief solidify in his expression. “Right - no dicks. You can, uh - take a look.” Lambert handed his phone over to his fourteen year old niece, which was his <em> first </em> mistake. She immediately whisked it from his hands and bounced across to Geralt, with Eskel and Jaskier crowding in at the sides to examine the profile.</p><p>The man in the pictures was striking. <em> Aiden Taylor. </em> He had short, scruffy brown hair in some of the photographs, but in others it had grown slightly longer and begun to curl, and a goatee. Impeccably dressed for the first few in a three piece suit; he held a glass of wine in one, stood with a group of other <em> gorgeous </em> people in another; playing golf in a fourth, and shirtless on a beach somewhere warm and sunny in a fifth. In every single one he was grinning unabashedly, and was devastatingly good-looking. Jaskier tried to stem his smile , “He’s a lawyer. Big firm too. Taylor &amp; Smith,” Jaskier paused, and then gasped. “Oh cr--,” glanced at Ciri and Eskel’s raised eyebrow, “-crud, <em> he’s </em> the Taylor. Lambert, you’ve really hit a winner. I told you that we'd hook you something on PoF. And he contacted you?”</p><p>“Yeah, I haven’t really been doing much more than scrolling across,” Lambert murmured. “It’s a joke though, right? He’s clearly just looking for -,” another glance at Ciri, “- shenanigans.”</p><p>Ciri sighed in exasperation. “Seriously. I’m fourteen and I go to an all girls school. You can say the words ‘shit’, ‘crap’, ‘fuck’ and ‘sex’ in front of me.”</p><p>“Ciri.” Geralt growled, and then sighed when she gave a petulant poke of her tongue. </p><p>“No. It says he’s looking for a serious, long term relationship in his profile, and he’s asked you out for a coffee.” Eskel read the message. “So, you’re accepting it.”</p><p>“No,” Lambert huffed. “It’s - that’s not legitimate. I bet it’s just a ghost profile and I’ll turn up and - .” Geralt placed his fork down, lifted a hand and accepted the invitation to talk on the phone. Everyone looked at him in shock, and Lambert scrambled from his seat, “What did you do?” His voice was amusingly high-pitched, and Jaskier grinned as he handed the phone over. “Wh - what do I say? You’ve just - <em> he said good morning. </em>” Lambert sounded about ready to die on the spot. </p><p>“Say good morning back,” Geralt rumbled, impatiently. “Or has that changed while I’ve been abroad?” </p><p>Eskel began to gather the plates, and offered a tad more comfort. “Don’t panic. Just have a chat and see what happens. You’ll soon figure out whether he’s serious. You used to interrogate terrorists, Lambert.”</p><p>“Yes, but - it - I - ,” Lambert rounded on Geralt and Jaskier; Geralt was looking at him with amusement, Jaskier was all-out beaming. “You’re both f - f - f -,” Ciri rolled her eyes and put her hands over her ears, “fuckin’ dickheads, if this is a fucking joke I will cut your fucking bollocks off and feed them to the squirrels on Parker’s Piece, bleed you over the River-fuckin’-Cam and then leave your desiccated remains for the lechers that prowl it at night.” He fled with <em> dignity </em> to sweat over it in his room, and Jaskier stood to help Eskel gather the plates for the dishwasher.</p><p>Ciri smirked, “So, Jaskier, you set him up on it then?” She was quick, this spitfire. </p><p>“Yes. He wasn’t getting the right kind of people on his other apps, and his profile was all wrong. We set him up something that would attract someone nicer.”</p><p>Geralt hummed and regarded Jaskier with - <em> was that approval? Holy fuck. </em>He stood, and began to help with the dishes, remarking softly so that the humanoid-shaped pack of high explosive currently storming around his bedroom upstairs couldn’t hear, “Lambert deserves to be with someone nice.”</p><p>Eskel pressed a soft kiss to Jaskier’s cheek as they stacked the dishwasher together, “Welcome to the family.” And Jaskier could have cried on the spot. Instead, he smiled. He smiled so widely <em> all day </em> that, by the time he and Eskel flopped into the Wetherspoon’s outside London Liverpool Street station for their train home, his face hurt and his heart was light enough to float him to heaven.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For my friends abroad:<br/>- Parker's Piece is a notoriously dodgy park in Cambridge (at night there had been a number of assaults/arrests/drug deals, perfectly fine during the day and full of rabid squirrels).<br/>- 'Sixth Formers' are in Year 12/13 at school (between 16-18), and the oldest year groups in secondary school.<br/>- 'Squash' is concentrated fruit juice that you add water to; I legit did not realise this was a British-icism/slang term until today, sorry.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Weekend Chat (E)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Wolf</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 1:33 PM</span><br/>
<span class="text"> Eskel, Ciri has told me she likes girls.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Alright. Your response?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> I bought her ice cream.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> I meant what did you say?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Love is love. I asked whether there was a girl in particular.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> You're killing me here, Geralt. More details please.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> There is a girl. Ciri showed me a picture of them together at the roller derby. Ciri was worried about asking her out, and I told her not to wait and just do it, because if she doesn’t, then she’ll regret it for a long time.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>Eskel stared at his phone, his fingers frozen in place, and felt his chest tighten. <em> A lifetime. </em></p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Wolf</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Did I say the right thing?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Perfect, Geralt. Is she happy?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Yes. She cried. Was worried. But she said they were happy tears. We’re going for pizza, and then will be home.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Ok. See you soon.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>***</p><p>Ciri was staying in Geralt’s room, and Geralt camped out on the sofa, which meant that Jaskier had to be <em> really </em> quiet on Sunday evening when Eskel began to kiss his neck and run those huge hands over his chest. It was late and they’d already fallen asleep once, but Eskel had been restless since Geralt’s arrival; pacing, turning repeatedly in bed, fiddling with random items, leafing aimlessly through his paperwork. Eventually, he’d fallen into a light sleep. </p><p>The flat was silent but for the distant hum of traffic on the main road about half a mile out, and Jaskier bit back a quiet moan as Eskel nibbled down the slope of his shoulder. Lying on his side, he could feel the press of Eskel’s interest against his ass and pushed back into it. “If you put your cock in me, I’m not going to be able to protect innocent ears.” Jaskier hissed, biting down hard on his lower lip as big fingers slid between his thighs, which obviously he splayed open by lifting a knee because he was <em> human</em>, not a <em> saint. </em></p><p>“Hm, good point. Guess I’ll just have to improvise.” Then those lips and that hand were gone and Jaskier whined at the loss. Bereft, riled up and then abandoned, how could he - oh no, wait. He heard the rustle of foil and the pop of  a lubricant bottle, then Eskel was back; his thick cock slid between Jaskier's legs, head nudging against the back of his balls. One arm moved below Jaskier’s neck and the corresponding palm pressed lightly over his mouth to bring his head back until it rested against Eskel’s shoulder, while the other curled around his cock, fingers still slick with lube. “Is this okay?”</p><p>Jaskier whimpered and pushed his face into Eskel’s hand. <em> Yes, yes, yes. </em> He pressed his thighs together as Eskel began to move against him in a slow, sensuous rut matched by the hand over Jaskier’s shaft, and he whispered praise against Jaskier’s neck and jaw. The sound of that low, bassy voice purring his name, punctuated by breathy pants and rumbles of pleasure, would <em> never </em> wear thin, and Jaskier whimpered and moaned his response. </p><p>Pressed against the length of Eskel’s torso, bound up in his arms, Jaskier’s climax spread through him slowly; his eyes rolled back into his head as his hips jerked into Eskel’s fist. The relentless thrust of Eskel’s cock across his balls was almost painful as they pulled in tight, but the spasms of his body quickly pulled Eskel over into his own orgasm, and Jaskier kept his legs firm until the muscular arms wrapped about his torso loosened with a satisfied growl. Jaskier looked down his chest to the full, dark head of Eskel’s cock pushed against the shield of the condom, “If I get tested, can we ditch these shitty things?” </p><p>“If that’s what you want. I will as well.” Eskel lifted Jaskier’s leg and pulled away to clean up, returning with a towel to mop the lubricant from Jaskier’s thighs and the few drops of come that had escaped his hand. He chucked it onto the floor to be dealt with in the morning and slotted back into bed, scooping Jaskier up against his side as he sprawled on his back.</p><p>“Think you’ll sleep better now?”</p><p>“Not sure.”</p><p>“Can I ask what’s bothering you?”</p><p>“I overthink things,” Eskel murmured, his free arm lifting to tuck behind his head as he stared into the darkness. “It’s part self-preservation, part bad habit.”</p><p>“If it ruins your sleep and makes you anxious, it’s all a bad habit. Speak to me, Care Bear.” Jaskier had adopted that little pet name from Lambert, because it fit Eskel too well to leave abandoned to that single evening. It was <em> tolerated </em> with a wry smile.</p><p>“Ciri told me that Geralt panicked when a car backfired in Cambridge yesterday, dragged her to the floor and hugged her there while shaking. It took him a couple of minutes to calm down.” Eskel stroked his hand slowly up and down Jaskier’s bicep. “She was a bit frightened by it, and I asked her not to tell her mother, which was wrong of me. Very wrong.” </p><p>“Ahh,” Jaskier shifted so that his head could rest fully on Eskel’s chest; he enjoyed the slow rise and fall accompanied by the strong thrum of the heartbeat inside. “You were trying to protect Geralt from what happened to Lambert.” He knew about Lambert’s situation; Eskel had told him over one of their most recent dates. It had broken his heart.</p><p>“Yennefer isn’t Keira. She’s far more level-headed, has firm beliefs about Geralt’s right to see his daughter, a good mum, I had no right,” Eskel rubbed his eyes. They’d never seen eye-to-eye; he found Yennefer very… difficult to talk with, but he had respect for her. Ciri was turning into a brilliant young woman, and Yen deserved a huge amount of the credit. The military had many downsides; the biggest was missing huge parts of your child’s upbringing. One of the many reasons Geralt had finally bowed to the pressure to retire. “I need to talk with Geralt about it. His first session with the therapist is on Monday, and I’m almost one hundred percent sure he will say everything is fine.”</p><p>“Can I - ?” Jaskier trailed off, fingers playing thoughtfully through the soft hair on Eskel’s chest. “Does Geralt dye his hair? In your photograph, it’s brown.”</p><p>Eskel stayed silent as he considered the top of Jaskier’s head. How much did he say? How much did he share? If Jaskier was going to be a part of this family - as dysfunctional and haphazard as it was - then he needed the knowledge to navigate it. “Geralt spent months as a prisoner of war, and then the rest of the year behind enemy lines trying to stay alive. It’s canities from stress and trauma.” </p><p>“He was a prisoner of war? And he’s not - I don’t know - he’s - .”</p><p>“Not in a padded cell, rocking backwards and forwards in a straitjacket,” Eskel offered, and felt Jaskier squirm. “Have you ever seen Iron Man? The first one.”</p><p>“Yes, of course I’ve seen Iron Man.”</p><p>“And you know how what’s-his-face builds himself a suit and fights his way out, and there are bullets, explosions and all sorts of crazy hollywood type dramatics?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Geralt fought his way out with a stanley knife and a crowbar, and his walk through the desert wasn’t interrupted by a helicopter miraculously appearing on the horizon. He <em> walked </em> to the nearest NATO base several hundred miles away, calmly informed them of his rank and designation, and then passed out at their feet. He doesn’t talk about what his captors did, won’t really talk about what <em> he </em> did, but he didn’t have many of those scars before that year.”</p><p>“Holy fuck,” Jaskier whispered. “And he stayed on after that?”</p><p>“He took a few months out, and they reinstated him in a non-combat role, but yes, he did,” Eskel sighed. “I think he needed the stability of it, but I - I don’t really know. He’s never… hmm.” It was difficult to marshall his thoughts into coherence, because he didn’t really <em> know </em> what he wanted to express. Most of it was <em> worry. </em> A huge part of recovery was <em> talking </em> , followed by accepting and then moving on, and Geralt didn’t <em> like </em> talking, so the first hurdle felt insurmountable.</p><p>Jaskier pushed himself upright so that he could look down at Eskel’s face. The street lights outside shone through the cracks in the blackout blinds, and he could just about make out those beautiful hazel eyes in the darkness. He couldn’t think of anything to say, and not for the first time, he realised he didn’t have the vocabulary or the experience to offer anything remotely constructive. It was galling. He’d always considered himself educated and eloquent; capable of running in any circle he chose to, and yet, in the face of these beaten heroes, with their scars and invisible wounds, he was nothing but a child. So he did all he could in that moment, which was to press his lips to Eskel’s in a gentle kiss and then nuzzle back down into his chest. “I’m… here. I don’t know what I can do, but… I’m here.”</p><p>Eskel hummed in contentment and hugged Jaskier close. “That’s more than enough.”</p><p>***</p><p>It was Monday evening. Ciri was going home the following morning - half term for her, so no rush - and the plan was to have Chinese takeout and watch a marathon of the Lord of the Rings. Eskel and Geralt were out to meet with Geralt’s new doctor - private, highly recommended - and Lambert was down in the garage tending to a project car he’d bought to keep himself occupied, so it was only Jaskier who heard the startled cry from Geralt’s bedroom. <em> Ciri. </em>He ran up the stairs from where he’d been finishing off an essay, and dashed to the en suite door. “Ciri, it’s Jaskier, is everything okay?”</p><p>“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god - .” The sound of rustling and stuttering tears.</p><p>“Ciri! Open up. Are you hurt? What’s going on?” </p><p>“Jaskier, can you get Uncle Lambert, <em> please</em>?” </p><p>“Yes, of course.” He ran from the flat, barely remembering to put the catch on the door and leapt down the metal stairs into the understorey car park. “Lambert!”</p><p>A metallic clang followed by “Ow, fuck!” as Lambert startled and smacked his head on the underside of the car. “<em>What </em>, Jaskier?” He wriggled out and sat up, one hand pressed to his forehead. There was a small split in his eyebrow. Nothing serious.</p><p>“It’s Ciri. She’s in the bathroom and she sounds distressed. She asked for you.”</p><p>Lambert wiped his hands on an old towel as he followed Jaskier back into the flat, and then rapped his knuckles lightly on the bathroom door. “What’s up, Sprout?”</p><p>“I - oh my God, it’s so embarrassing - I - .” She sniffled. </p><p>“C’mon. Out with it, or I can’t do anythin’. Thought you took after your mum and her ability to talk for England, so don’t let me down now,” he paused. When she continued to sniffle, he hummed thoughtfully and glanced sideways at Jaskier, who was looking increasingly concerned. “Is it a lady thing?”</p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>At this point, Jaskier was expecting Lambert to recoil in horror, perhaps even flee from the room, call Geralt and demand his immediate return, but he did none of it. Instead, he just nodded calmly. “Right,” Lambert turned and leaned his back against the wall, grease-streaked arms folded across his chest. “You know I was married to Aunty Keira for eight years, Sprout, and I have Zoe. I know all about lady things.” </p><p>“Yeah, I guess.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone out at a weird time to get ice cream and sanitary towels.”</p><p>“Oh my God, don’t <em> say </em> it.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because it’s - you’re a <em> guy. </em>”</p><p>“Oh man, I am? That’s where I’ve been going wrong all these years,” Lambert slapped his hand audibly to his forehead, and Ciri chuckled quietly. “Gonna’ tell me what you need? I need a brand for product and ice cream, please.”</p><p>“Can I text it to you so I don’t have to say it out loud?”</p><p>Lambert sighed. “Yeah.” Seconds later his phone pinged, and he checked to make sure he’d received the message. “Right, Sprout. I’ll leave you with Jaskier, gonna’ have to walk ‘cause Uncle Eskel and Dad have the car. Won’t be long.” He left the room, and moments later Jaskier heard the front door close behind him.</p><p>“Do you want a drink or something, Ciri?”</p><p>“No, I’m good.” She murmured, and Jaskier heard the sound of the toilet lid being placed down, followed by a quiet thump as she sat on it. “This sucks.”</p><p>“Yeah, I - uh, can imagine. Timing could’ve been better, right?”</p><p>“At least Dad and Uncle Eskel aren’t here. I think they’d lose their minds.”</p><p>Jaskier chuckled. He could imagine how adorably flustered Eskel would get, and Geralt would probably just blink at the door in embarrassment. “Uncle Lambert didn’t though. Have to admit that was unexpected.”</p><p>“Why? Uncle Lambert’s always good for stuff like this,” Ciri murmured. “He’s just… so kind, and non-judgemental. Like… he gets stuff, y’know?”</p><p><em> Non-judgemental might be going a bit far. </em>Jaskier didn’t correct her. “Do you - do you get to see much of your cousins? Zoe and Mason?”</p><p>“No. Aunty Keira’s a bitch. Uncle Lambert never says anything bad about her in front of me, but I know what she did. Mum told me,” Ciri didn’t pull punches, and Jaskier wouldn’t grass her up. She hoped. “She kicked Uncle Lambert out because he was sad, and then wouldn’t let him see them, so he got sadder. He deserves so much better. I’m really happy that he might have a date.” </p><p>“Do you know why Uncle Lambert was sad?”</p><p>“Hmm,” she shifted on the toilet seat. “He saw horrible things in Afghanistan. Saved Uncle Eskel’s life, like… carried him through the desert and stuff when his face was injured. He had to leave Dad because Dad told him to, but obviously I don’t blame him at all because Dad was like his superior officer. And then, when he went back into the army, he couldn’t save this girl or something. They won’t tell me much, but… yeah, that’s it.”</p><p>Jaskier sat with his back against the door and talked with Ciri until Lambert returned. He didn’t <em> mean </em> to pry, and he did his best not to ask anything that she might not want to share, but she seemed perfectly happy to chat with him. Uncle Eskel had studied for his degree and Masters while still in the military, and had started shortly after he found out she was going to be born. Dad was from Devon, and his mum - her grandma - was a bit crazy and didn’t get Dad vaccinated because she believed the first one had made him different to other kids, but she’d died ‘like ages ago or something’, and he really loved animals, so ‘we should totally go to the farm down the road so he can hold their guinea pigs’. Uncle Lambert was a brilliant guitarist and singer, and he’d been in this ‘really crazy punk band before he joined the army’ and ‘had a purple mohawk for one summer when he was fifteen which looked super cool and she wanted one’.</p><p>Once Lambert dropped off the goods, they left her to sort out what she needed and Lambert hopped into the shower to wash away the grease and oil from his skin. Eskel and Geralt arrived home an hour later to find the three of them crowded onto the same sofa with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s each. Lambert brandished his spoon at them, “Yours are in the freezer. It’s now a first period party, and it’s being hosted in the fires of Mordor. So hurry up and get your fat asses over here.” Eskel and Geralt blinked at each other, but did as they were told. Geralt took the fudge brownie, chucked the cookie dough at Eskel with a tablespoon, and they sat on the floor side-by-side. Just as Sam was rescuing Frodo from the spider, Jaskier noticed Geralt’s head tilt subtly towards Eskel's shoulder, almost like he wanted nothing more than to lean against him.</p><p>When Ciri left the following morning, she gave all of them a hug - including Jaskier, who was now ‘Uncle Jas’ - and promised to return in a couple of weekends to let them know about her girlfriend. She’d already decided the poor lass was going to say ‘yes’.</p><p>***</p><p><em> Hello. </em> No. What the fuck. That’s just - <em> delete, delete. Good morning. </em> Is that too lazy? <em> ‘Sup. </em> Fuck no. <em> What am I? Twelve? </em> It was two days later. Lambert was pretty sure Aiden had forgotten he’d messaged by this point, but was still doing everything possible <em> not </em> to message back and forget himself. Eskel’s car had been making funny noises, so that was a good four hours spent pretending he didn’t know exactly what it was. <em> Have to take the engine apart, Eskel. Sorry. </em> But now even that was back together and purring like the German feline it should, and <em>now…</em> Lambert placed his phone down and dipped into the fridge to find the bottle of Schloer Eskel’s twink - <em> Jaskier, have to use his name, Eskel’s gettin’ pissed - </em> had left for him.</p><p>Geralt walked behind him, squinted at the unanswered message, plucked it from the side while Lambert wasn’t looking, and typed an answer - ‘Hi, sorry, phone issues. Still up for that coffee?’ - then walked away in the space of twenty seconds. When Lambert turned back, he almost dropped the glass and bottle onto the floor. “What the fuck? Geralt, Geralt did you do this? What - <em> holy fuck. </em>” All he got was a quiet grunt in reply as the white-haired piece of shit walked back to his documentary on sharks with his cup of tea. Eskel was at work, Jaskier was doing student-type things, so it was just them - two unemployed bachelors - knocking about the flat.</p><p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody"><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Aiden (10:02 AM):</b></span> Ahh, I was worried you weren’t interested. Definitely. I know it’s forward, but I prefer to speak in person. How about Saturday? We can grab some lunch if you decide I’m not intolerable.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>Lambert took a deep breath. And another one. And a third for good measure, and then picked up the phone. Why was this so hard? He’d dated and wooed Keira effortlessly. But then they were - <em> had been </em> - childhood sweethearts. This was different. <em> He </em> was different. No way someone would date the man he was now <em>seriously</em>. <em> Fuck it. </em> C’mon. <em> C’mon.  </em></p><p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody"><br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Lambert (10:12 AM):</b></span> Sure. Dealer’s choice. I’m good with wherever.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><b>Aiden (10:13 AM):</b></span> Alright. The Coffee House, down Wulfstan Way. I like their baguettes.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><b>Lambert (10:13 AM):</b></span> Great. See you then.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>Right. So that was happening. Lambert threw himself onto the sofa next to Geralt - <em> really close just to piss him off, yeah, get nice and cozy there Geralt - </em>and folded his arms. “You’re an asshole. I’m gonna’ get fucking ghosted, and it’s all your fault.” Geralt just hummed and plucked another square of Galaxy chocolate from the open packet on the coffee table.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Coffee For Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Oh no, no, no. Back upstairs.” Jaskier hopped off the sofa as Lambert appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Hair was neat, the beard was well-groomed. He’d donned a fitted pair of jeans - very nice, he had a good ass - but his shirt was laughably oversized and he was wearing the same crap pair of combat boots, covered in scuffs with broken laces.</p><p>Just as Lambert was about to open his mouth to clap back, Eskel looked up from the newspaper crossword he was doing and hummed his agreement. “You need a fitted shirt.” </p><p>“A <em>fitted </em> shirt? Not all of us have cleavage to show off, Eskel.” </p><p>“Hmm, but you have a classic v-shaped figure. It needs to be flaunted. And you <em> do </em> have a chest, I’ve seen it when you wear those t-shirts while working on the cars,” Jaskier swooped his arms to herd Lambert back towards the stairs, and managed to get right up to him before he was even acknowledged. “<em>Trust </em> me. I won’t let you leave this flat looking anything less than truly ravishing.” </p><p>“Give him a chance.” Eskel looked back at his crossword, and Lambert huffed an irritable sigh but stomped back upstairs with Jaskier at his heels. His wardrobe was <em> limited. </em>In fact, there wasn’t a single iota of colour beyond the blue of his jeans, and even they were the darkest possible shade he could source. Several shirts were taken out and dismissed as Jaskier searched for something that wouldn’t billow from Lambert’s shoulders like a sail.</p><p>“Ah-ha! This.” Jaskier tugged the coat-hanger free and pushed it back into the wardrobe, and then spotted a pair of smart, black oxfords at the bottom. “And these.” He held them out, and Lambert placed his hands on his hips. “Well?”</p><p>“I - that - it’s very fitted,” Lambert said, taking the shirt by the collar and checking the size. He hadn’t worn this in about six years. Since before <em> everything. </em> It didn’t leave much to the imagination. He wasn’t <em> out </em> of shape - certainly not <em> bigger </em> - but he’d lost some of his definition over the years because of the drink. “Fuck, alright. Not like it could make this bullshit any worse.” He popped the top button and turned to change.</p><p>Jaskier took the opportunity to <em> look </em> - obviously - and spotted a similar pattern of scars to Eskel’s body; the nicks, cuts and slashes from enemies and environment. He also admired the way Lambert’s back muscles flexed when he lifted the shirt behind his shoulders. <em> What? He had a thing for good backs. </em> The fit was definitely <em> better. </em> The cut tucked in at the waist and flared out across the shoulders in all the right ways. It was tighter too, and when Lambert turned to face Jaskier, he could <em> see </em> his pectorals. Lambert didn’t seem impressed, “I look like I’m going out cruising.”</p><p>“Well…” Jaskier was going to make a joke, then bit it back when he saw the thunderous look in those puppy-dog brown eyes. “You look great. Aiden’s a lucky man. Now, shoes, and you’re good to go.” They were snatched from his grasp and Lambert kicked his boots off. He paused in lacing them when he realised <em> what </em> shoes they were. <em> Fuck. </em>Alright. No. It’s fine. He snagged the old shirt and buffed off a smudge created by an errant thumb, before he stood up. Jaskier beamed, “Dashing.”</p><p>Lambert glanced at himself in the mirror, but looked away quickly. When he saw Jaskier give him the thumbs up, he rolled his eyes and stomped out of the room. “Fuck's sake. Eskel! Get the car.” </p><p>***</p><p>“He won’t be there. Or he’ll just want a quick handjob in the alleyway.” Lambert sat in the passenger seat and still wasn’t getting out. Trying to find a reason that this wasn’t going to work, or be real, or - <em> fuck. </em>This was scarier than defusing a field full of T/79 landmines. To be fair, the easiest way to do that was a ‘controlled explosion’; kick as many footballs across the fucking thing as possible. Some of the assholes he knew used stray dogs but that was just - right, he was getting sidetracked.</p><p>“Tell you what, I’ll wait here until you text me. If he asks you for a handjob, you deck him, walk out and get into the car. I still remember all my advanced driving skills training. We can outrun the fuzz and be home in time to watch the Wasps kick your ass.”</p><p>“Fat chance.”</p><p>“What? That I can out drive the police?”</p><p>“Wasps beating the Quins.” Lambert opened the car door and slammed it on Eskel’s retort. He jogged across the street and paused outside the coffee shop. It was billed as ‘small’ and ‘cozy’ on Google. There was nothing chain-fuelled about this place. It was almost… intimate. <em> Fuck's sake. </em>He quickly scrolled through his own profile again, and then took another quick glance at Aiden’s pictures to make sure he walked up to the right person, and then ducked inside.</p><p>There were only a handful of people in there, and Aiden stood out like a radiant beam of fucking sunshine. He had his hair cut short, tousled, and his goatee and moustache were carefully groomed around the lines of his face. <em> Gary Barlow eat your heart out. </em>As the bell on top of the door pinged he looked up from his phone, and immediately tucked it away inside the pocket of his jeans. If anyone else had worn a salmon pink shirt, sleeves rolled to their elbows, then Lambert would have called them a walking disaster, but it made Aiden all the more striking. “Ahh, well, this is a relief.” Aiden grinned as Lambert walked over.</p><p>“It is?”</p><p>“Yeah. Sometimes people turn up and look nothing like their pictures. I’ve had some very awkward first meetings,” Aiden stepped forward with his arms out, but Lambert dodged back and offered out a hand instead. There was a wry tweak to the corner of Aiden’s lips, but he took it for a shake anyway. “Of course, it’s even better when they turn up and look a thousand times better in person.”</p><p>Lambert felt the heat flush up his chest and clenched his teeth. “That line normally work?”</p><p>“You tell me.”</p><p>“Fell flat,” Lambert grated, and then pulled out his wallet. “Coffee?”</p><p>“Oh, let me. I chose the venue, so, I should pay,” he grinned brightly, clearly unphased by his frosty reception. “What’s your poison?”</p><p>“Cappuccino, please.” Lambert sat down in the chair opposite and tried to ignore the fact that his heart was hammering louder than when he’d thrown himself out of planes for HALO jumps - thirty thousand feet of glorious free fall (mostly). Actually, he’d much prefer to be doing that right now -, “Thank you.”  </p><p>“You’re welcome. The coffee’s good here. I always find Starbucks and the like taste a bit burnt.” Aiden slid back into his seat and clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “So, tell me about you. It says you’re ex-special forces, what are you doing now?”</p><p>“Uh,” <em> - cooking for my disaster-gay best friend and his twink mainly - </em> “I’m in between jobs. You’re a lawyer. Big city, right?” He knocked back a huge, scalding mouthful of his coffee - <em> shit, it was good - </em>and glanced over his shoulder towards the door. This was going too normally. Something was wrong. Something had to be wrong. </p><p>“Yes, it makes me very good at reading people,” Aiden leaned back, head tilted to the side. “Are you expecting someone else?”</p><p>“Just trying to work out your angle,” Lambert replied evenly. “Big city lawyer messages - <em> and then waits for a reply from - </em> washed up ex-squaddie. So what is it? Forces kink? Hoping for a project?”</p><p>“Hmm, I see,” Aiden sipped his own drink, and then yanked his phone out of his pocket when it pinged. He didn’t even look at the message, just flicked it onto silent and put it away. “You’re worried I - rich city boy - want to take advantage of you - salt of the earth military lad.” He sounded amused.</p><p>“Am I funny to you?” Lambert bristled.</p><p>“Extremely attractive, and clearly nervous, but not funny, no,” Aiden tilted his head. “If you must know, it was the kitten.”</p><p>“The kitten?”</p><p>“Yes. I really like cats. You have a picture on your bio with a cat curled up on your back, and then I saw your face and knew I had to meet you. Anyone that has time to let a little kitten snooze in the middle of a warzone is definitely worth mine.” He paused. “I <em> would </em> be lying if I denied imagining what it would be like helping you out of that uniform, but I believe that’s a fairly common fantasy you have to deal with.”</p><p>“You like cats.” Lambert’s eyes narrowed. “Just excuse me for one moment.” He tugged his phone from his pocket and typed a quick message -</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
    <span class="header">Care Bear</span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
    <span class="time"><b>Today</b> 1:10 PM</span>
    <br/>
    <span class="greply"> All fine. Text you for pick up.</span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
    <span class="text"> Knock 'em dead, tiger.</span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
    <span class="greply"> Don't ever call me that again.</span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </p>
</div><p>“Had to call off the back up,” Lambert offered when Aiden blinked at him. “The kitten was in Afghanistan. The rest of the patrol took the piss out of me actually, because my callsign was Cat. Uh, a callsign is what you use over coms instead of your name just in case you’re intercepted and…” -</p><p>Lambert talked with Aiden effortlessly. Whenever he strayed into sarcasm, it appeared to amuse his companion rather than irritate him and so Lambert relaxed a little further. He discovered that Aiden lived in Cambridge even though his offices were in London; he preferred the pace of life a bit further north. He <em> was </em> the Taylor of Taylor &amp; Smith, and the main shareholder of the company because ‘Smith’ had died in a car crash about six years ago. The holiday pictures were a mere snapshot of where he’d been; travelling was one of his favourite hobbies and his career allowed him to visit some of the farthest flung places on earth, including Sierra Leone where he spent some time helping with war trials. This impressed Lambert, who had been part of the group sent to maintain order. The conflict itself had ended in 2000, but the country was still recovering.</p><p>Lambert showed Aiden pictures of Zoe and Mason and then had to explain that he didn’t really get to see them much because of <em>reasons</em>; Aiden didn’t pry, but packed it away for <em>later.</em> Lambert with his kids wrapped in his arms had been one of the most attractive parts of the profile. Open adoration on his face. This was not a shallow man, but one proud of his family, unashamed of his past or his scars. He laid them bare for everyone to see. Each image betrayed a big, honest heart and Aiden had found him truly irresistible. Waiting two days for a reply had been torturous. Instead, he steered the conversation onto safer ground to rejuvenate the light in Lambert’s eyes. Sport. Personal favourites were golf, swimming and <em>rugby</em>.</p><p>“Saracens.” Aiden beamed.</p><p>“Oh, glory hunter, I see. How is it down there at the bottom of the table this season? Cozy, I bet.”</p><p>“Let me guess. Harlequins. I can see the smarm all over you.”</p><p>“That’s cheating. I’m wearing a Quins shirt in one of my photographs,” Lambert folded his arms. “You’re just bitter because your backs can’t carry to save their lives. Do they even know what a set piece <em> is </em>?”</p><p>“Hang on, let me just check the score against the Wasps,” Aiden lifted his hand. “Oh, well, would you look at that? You’re down 21 - 7.”</p><p>“What?” Lambert leapt forward, and Aiden smirked as he tilted his phone. <em> It was true. How? Eskel was going to be insufferable.  </em></p><p>Aiden took the opportunity to study those beautiful brown eyes a little more closely, and caught the subtle scent of cologne and aftershave. This was definitely a man he was seeing again. “If they pull it back, I’ll pay for dinner next time.”</p><p>Lambert smirked. “You’ll pay for dinner <em> next time </em>? Quite sure of yourself, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Tell me I’m wrong.” </p><p>"Alright, city boy. You’re on. If they pull it back, I’ll choose the restaurant and you pay, if they don’t then - and my bank balance will hate me for this - I’ll pay, you choose.” </p><p>“Hmm,” Aiden checked his watch. “Do you want to get a drink with me? There’s a nice pub just ‘round the corner.”</p><p>“Uh - I - umm,” Lambert swallowed; one drink wouldn’t hurt, right? <em> No. </em> It really would. Not only that, but Eskel would be able to smell it a mile away. “I don’t drink.”</p><p>“Oh, right, well, that’s a surprise. You’re just blasting the stereotypes out the sky for me right now,” Aiden grinned, but stood anyway. “Shall we go for a walk instead? There are thirty minutes left of the match. If I have any more caffeine, I won’t sleep until our next date.” </p><p><em> Next date. </em>Lambert’s ears turned pink, but he tried to ignore the warm sensation as he followed Aiden out into the temperate summer’s afternoon. They headed north and ended up in Cherry Hinton Hall Road Park and Aiden strolled along with his hands in his pockets, admiring the defined lines of Lambert’s torso discreetly from the corner of his eye. “What did you do in the army?”</p><p>“I blew shit up,” Lambert watched a grey squirrel skitter up a nearby tree. “Or I tried to stop shit blowing up if the occasion demanded it. Did special ops’ that I can’t talk about or I’d have to kill you.” He said it with a deadpan tone, but couldn’t help the smirk when Aiden raised one of those elegantly groomed eyebrows.  </p><p>“Why’d you leave?”</p><p>“Something blew up when I didn’t want it to.” Lambert’s shoulders had tensed; Aiden noticed and allowed the conversation to peter out until they had eased again in the silence.</p><p>“So, dance music. Was that an ironic part of your profile, or were you being serious?”</p><p>Lambert’s mouth dropped open, and he scoffed. “Let me guess. Posh shoes, designer shirts and jeans… Vivaldi and Beethoven?”</p><p>“Metalhead, actually.”</p><p>“Well, fuck me, I wouldn’t have called that.”</p><p>“Maybe later.” Aiden smirked at the look of surprise, and continued to stroll ahead. “Keep up, kitten.”</p><p>Wasps thrashed the Harlequins. Aiden chose a nice Thai restaurant in the centre of town.</p><p>***</p><p>“Well, how’d it go?” Eskel glanced across as Lambert fell into the passenger seat.</p><p>“Yeah, went alright. We - umm - we’re meeting up again in the week for dinner.” Eskel slapped the steering wheel in triumph and Lambert startled. “What the fuck?”</p><p>“Geralt owes me a tenner.”</p><p>“You two are fucking assholes.” Lambert growled, and then became distracted by his phone when a message from Aiden popped up.</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
    <span class="header">Aiden</span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
    <span class="time"><b>Today</b> 5:30 PM</span>
    <br/>
    <span class="text"> Really enjoyed today, kitten. See you Wednesday..</span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </p>
</div><p>
  <em> Hmm. Kitten. Well, that wasn’t gonna’ fuckin’ stick - right? </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. A Single Light</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lambert dismissed his date initially as a fluke. It went well, sure, but the next one wouldn’t. He’d say or do something abrasive, either on purpose to protect himself or by accident, and then Aiden would ditch him for someone easier. So, it was a surprise when the texts kept coming, and the date at the Thai restaurant was just as enjoyable as their coffee. </p><p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Aiden</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 10:30 PM</span><br/>
<span class="text"> I thought I was going to get a kiss tonight.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> I have a three date rule. Not a slut.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> I'll be sure to put on my best lip balm next week then.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Arrogance is not attractive.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Not what your eyes said eariler.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Eyes don't speak.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Yours do. All the time.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Jesus-shittin’-Christ, Eskel’s gonna’ love you. That text just gave me diabetes. See you next week.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>After Wednesday, Lambert started running. He didn’t make a fuss. Friday morning he was waiting for Eskel downstairs in shorts, shirt and trainers, and then limped back through the door having done the full twelve miles through sheer bloody-mindedness. He got quicker, and soon Eskel was having to up his pace back towards his personal best time. Meals became very protein and greenery heavy - fewer rich sauces - and Eskel saw him doing press ups one afternoon in his bedroom. Getting fit again. <em> Aiden. </em> Had to be. <em> Good. </em>Fitness was an important part of selfcare. Jaskier noticed it too, and nudged Eskel with his elbow every time Lambert smiled at his phone, or disappeared upstairs to take a call. Unfortunately, the spectre of Keira continued to hang over Lambert’s joy, and he hadn't spoken to Mason and Zoe in weeks. Not even Aiden could distract him from that huge absence in his life.</p><p>Eskel’s panel went well and the university was happy with his progress. One more year of study and he’d be <em> Doctor </em> Cirillo. It was Sunday morning and Ciri’s weekend; Jaskier had suggested a trip to the farm, which was open until late afternoon to visitors. But first, he had to call home. Computer propped open on his lap, he glanced sideways at Geralt, who raised an eyebrow and looked back at his David Attenborough documentary - <em> looked like Blue Planet - </em> and didn’t take the hint for privacy. “Okay then.” Jaskier murmured, and dialled in. Lambert was pottering around the kitchen making sandwiches for them to take to the farm, and Eskel was annotating a huge pack of papers on an armchair nearby.</p><p>Jaskier <em> did not </em> expect his father to be sitting next to his mother when the image finally popped up. “Oh, he - .”</p><p>“Now, Julian, you listen here, your mother’s told me all about this relationship you have, I’ve seen the photographs, and it needs to - .”</p><p>“Now is <em> not </em> a good time.” </p><p>“<em>Don’t </em> interrupt me. These men you’re with, they’re not safe - dangerous - you need to cut off all connections immediately. Not only that, but you know a relationship with someone nearly <em> twenty years </em> older than you is not healthy, or logical - .”</p><p>Geralt looked slowly across to Eskel who had now placed his papers aside. They conducted a brief, silent exchange using their hands, and Jaskier <em> definitely </em> recognised one of Geralt’s gestures; loosely curled fist, swiped from left to right. <em> This guy’s a wanker. </em> Eskel left his seat and dropped down into the cushion right next to Jaskier, and Geralt leaned in close on the other side. Pankratz Senior’s tirade ended <em> immediately. </em>Geralt spoke evenly, “Good morning, Alfred.” Jaskier blinked at him in surprise.</p><p>“Captain Rivia, I - I didn’t expect you to - and, Cirillo, you’re -.”</p><p>“Interesting that you should say I’m unsafe,” Geralt made a show of looking troubled, while Eskel tilted Jaskier’s chin towards him with a mischievous little smile. “I believe in my handing over ceremony you commented on my courage in the face of adversity, dedication to and passion for the service. Pride of my country; you may have even used the term hero.” </p><p>“Yes, but you must understand - .”</p><p>“But clearly what you <em> really </em> meant was look at this monster of war, look at his teeth and horns, lock away your sons and daughters. I’ll be sure to return my medal to your address. The government cannot be seen to be honouring dangerous men, can it?”</p><p>“That’s really not necessary - .”</p><p>Geralt looked to Jaskier, who was now enjoying a rather deep kiss with Eskel, one palm cupping the sculpted jaw with its marks of sacrifice. “Jaskier, do you wish to speak with your mother?”</p><p>Flushed, Jaskier sat back and cast Eskel another sensuous look as he stood up to help Lambert pack the lunch. “Yes, please.”</p><p>Geralt looked back at the screen pointedly. Pankratz’s Senior stood up and left without a word, startled both by the kiss he’d just seen his son enjoy and Geralt’s remarks. Jaskier smiled at his mother, “Hi, mum.”</p><p>“Well, that was very dramatic,” she whispered, and waved at Geralt, who inclined his head and left the sofa to change out of his sleeping clothes. “I’m so sorry, Jules. He must have <em> heard </em> something, because he was asking some very pointed questions, and - .”</p><p>“Mum, don’t worry. I’ve been posting photographs all over social media. I bet one of his civil servant cronies found something. But, as you can see, I’m in very safe hands.”</p><p>“The one with black hair is Eskel,” she whispered, conspiratorially, with the trace of a giggle in her voice. “He’s rather…”</p><p>“Dashing, gorgeous, intelligent, witty, brave - .”</p><p>“You’re making me blush, Jaskier.” Eskel called from the kitchen, and punched Lambert, who gagged in mock disgust.</p><p>“I was going to say muscular. His hands are so, well, you know what they say about big hands - .”</p><p>“<em>Mum.” </em> Jaskier pretended to be horrified, but it was hilarious. “Yeah, big gloves. Is everything okay? You look a bit tired.”</p><p>“Oh yes, the puppies are keeping me awake at <em> all hours </em> of the night. I’ve had a bit of a headache because of it, honestly.” She rolled her eyes. “But they’re so cute. Be ready for their forever homes very soon. We haven’t advertised or anything, probably just give them all to friends and family.”</p><p>“Ahh, interesting,” Jaskier cast a quick glance around the flat. <em> Something to talk to Eskel about. </em> “Right. We’re heading off to the farm down the road today. Geralt, uh, Captain Rivia, has his daughter over and we’re going to go visit the animals.” He wasn’t a moron. It was as much for <em> Geralt </em> as it was for Ciri. Eskel had liked the idea, and Ciri had obviously nearly exploded at the idea of petting fluffy things all day.</p><p>“Okay, darling. Love you!” She kissed her hands and swept them towards the monitor several times before she hung up, and Eskel drifted back over to press a kiss into Jaskier’s hair.</p><p>“I hope that wasn’t too much.”</p><p>“No,” Jaskier leaned back, head draping over the cushion so that chaste kiss could be transferred to his lips instead. “You were perfect. Both of you.”</p><p>***</p><p>South Angle Farm Park was a short drive from the flat. Lambert stayed behind because he wanted to work a bit more on his project car, so Jaskier and Ciri piled into the back and Geralt took shotgun. It was a sprawling estate with lots of amusements to occupy the younger generations, and Geralt looked briefly uncomfortable when a herd of shrieking children walked by him. A sunny Sunday afternoon at the beginning of June meant that there were hundreds of people, but Ciri’s enthusiasm and energy kept them on the move until they reached the small animal petting area. The barn was dim and air-conditioned, and Ciri found one of the attendants to bring over a couple of guinea pigs.</p><p>She’d been right. The moment that little vibrating ball of fluff was placed in Geralt’s lap, the man almost melted. The tension that had bunched in his shoulders the moment the crowds closed in dissipated completely. He petted it gently down its back and smiled when it purred and rumbled. “Is that a good sound?” He asked Ciri quietly, clearly worried he was hurting it in some way.</p><p>“Yeah. They make lots of sounds. But if they’re high-pitched, then they’re scared. That’s purring.” Her own cavvy was vibrating at about the same pitch, and she scritched it behind its ears. They were provided with some dandelion leaves and Geralt methodically fed them into his guinea pig shredder, nudging Ciri to point out how it ate without moving any part of its body other than its lower jaw. She giggled, and imitated it; Geralt quickly swiped the dandelion leaf out of her mouth with an incredulous guffaw… and then fed it to his guinea pig. </p><p>Eskel was watching everything from afar, browsing the pens, and Jaskier was watching <em> Eskel</em>, because he’d <em> seen </em> something during their Lord of the Rings marathon, and other <em> things </em> since.Glances, brief, passing contact, but a reluctance to be as tactile as they were with Lambert. Geralt cuffed, shoved and flicked Lambert as if he were an errant child, but was still <em> physical </em> in some way, and Eskel was constantly embracing Lambert like the huge teddy bear he was, but with <em> each other </em> it was like they were worried about crossing the divide. Overcompensating in the opposite direction. Because the look on Eskel’s face when he watched Geralt with that guinea pig was <em> far </em> beyond simple fondness; it was adoration, and he was trying to hide it behind the pillars of the barn and passing glances.</p><p>It wasn’t in one direction either. Once they were finished with the guinea pigs - and checked Geralt over for any attempts to smuggle one out - they went over to the outdoor petting zoo with the sheep and the goats. It took all of three seconds for Ciri to convince Eskel to climb over the fence and join her. As he bent down to pet a nanny goat, a small kid jumped up onto the platform of his back and bleated in triumph, as if it had just scaled a mountain; little hooves bounced up and down and then it bent over to snuffle through his hair. He froze, Ciri fell over laughing; eventually one of the attendants came over to save him, and he took the little goat in his arms with a broad grin. Geralt watched with soft eyes, pupils wide as was the case when you were looking at something you <em> liked</em>, and Jaskier was left in no doubt. There was something here. Something <em> big. </em></p><p><em> But how to approach it without spooking them both? </em> There was eighteen years worth of history there. A lifetime for him. Who was he to go wading in without investigating further? For all he knew, it had been explored once and hadn’t gone well, or - no, that was definitely unrequited love (or so they thought, it was so blindingly obvious that it was returned). The way that Eskel watched Geralt pet a horse’s nose and then lift Ciri up under the arms so she could too. He <em> loved </em> Geralt. So, where did that leave Jaskier? A cheap replacement, perhaps? Eskel had settled for the second best blue-eyed man in his life. Was he in the way? The thought sent a shard of pain through Jaskier’s heart, and he tried to push it away. <em> Selfish thoughts. </em> That didn’t make it go away though, and it kept wandering back whenever Geralt and Eskel went out together - food shopping, for a doctor’s appointment, anything - it wouldn’t be so bad if it was <em> known</em>, or out in the open, but it was quiet, and <em> secretive. </em> From themselves. From Jaskier.</p><p>As they walked through the gift shop, Geralt bought Ciri a stuffed toy guinea pig with a squeaker inside - “Squeak it near your mum as much as possible, she’ll love it.” - and they hopped into Eskel’s car once their hands were disinfected. Uncle Lambert had made them a lasagne, and Jaskier did his best to fall into their usual family routine, but his mind was now distracted by his…  dilemma. </p><p>***</p><p>Aiden picked Lambert up for their date the third time. In a BMW i8 that Lambert saw and immediately fell in love with. “Pop the hood. Right now.” He clicked his fingers as Aiden stepped out of the driving seat and received an arched eyebrow, but the bonnet was dutifully unclipped and Lambert rolled his sleeves up to his elbows.</p><p>“Oh, come to daddy, that is a turbo-charged inline three. Zero to sixty-two in four seconds. That… have you had the electronic limiter turned off? I know it does one hundred and fifty-five, but I bet we could get it to one hundred eighty, easily.” He ducked, inspected and touched what he could. It was a plug-in hybrid, so the hefty orange cables warned against too much fiddling. </p><p>“That would be illegal, Lambert.” Aiden smirked, one hand still propped on the hood as his little grease monkey - <em> grease kitten? </em> - rooted through the interior. “Come on. We’ll be late for our reservation.” He glanced up towards the flat and waved at Eskel who was watching with amusement; he received a flick of the hand back and then Eskel disappeared with his cup of tea in hand.</p><p>“I remember when they unveiled this thing in 2009. It was going to be a turbo-charged diesel at first. I watched it on a satellite television in - ,” he shifted out of the way quickly as Aiden unhooked the bonnet to drop it down, and then scowled. “Hungry or something?”</p><p>“Yes, in actual fact, I’ve had a bit of a long week. Get in.” Aiden ducked into the driver's seat and waited for Lambert to buckle himself in. He smacked his hands away from the radio twice, and then - “Driver picks the music, shotgun deals with it.” It was Shinedown, so nothing too heavy for sensitive, dance-loving ears. Aiden had chosen Restaurant Twenty Two down Chesterton Road for their third date; expensive Victorian fine dining. He’d discovered Lambert was a foodie quite by accident. A passing comment on the nature of Thai cuisine and the palette of spices they used in most of the dishes, so his plan of action was simple. Good, expensive food would equal a kiss. Because he <em> was </em> getting that damned kiss this evening. It was unfair that a man should have a set of lips so full and expressive and restrict them for three whole dates.</p><p>With creative interpretation of the speed limit, they made it in good time and Aiden parked up just outside, and within five minutes of entering Aiden had a glass of red wine and Lambert had a J2O. “I’ll defer to the expert. I’ll have what you have.”</p><p>Lambert raised an eyebrow, but cast a critical eye over the menu. “Black truffle agnolotti will be nice for starters, the Cornish hake for main and it has to be dark chocolate for dessert.” The server nodded and headed away, and Lambert spent time gazing around the interior.</p><p>“When did you decide you didn’t do alcohol?”</p><p>No answer was forthcoming at first, and Lambert fiddled with his napkin. He didn’t want to ruin this. It was… <em> he liked it. </em> But a part of him knew it had to end some time. Aiden would find out and run a fucking mile, so - “I became an alcoholic after I was discharged, still am, technically. It’s been a few months.” Aiden put his glass of wine down slowly and looked apologetic. “What - no, you don’t -,” Lambert rubbed a hand over his face, teeth clenched, “I’m capable of self control.” <em> Mostly.  </em></p><p>“I’m not questioning that. I just feel continuing to drink is in poor taste.”</p><p>“Why? Because the weak piece of shit squaddie can’t handle it?” </p><p>“No,” Aiden clasped his hands and leaned forward. “Because the squaddie deserved to be asked whether he minded first. In retrospect, do you mind?” </p><p>Lambert looked taken aback. “I’ve already said I don’t. Just - fucking drink your wine.” He folded his arms and slumped a little lower in his chair. No one was <em> looking </em> at them, but he still felt scrutinised. </p><p>“Lambert, I - uh - I’m sorry. I should have been more tactful.”</p><p>“It’s - don’t apologise - .”</p><p>“Then please don’t clam up on me. I want to get to know you. I -,” Aiden fiddled with his watch. “I very much like you, and I was hoping that perhaps you would like to move beyond just the odd date to something a bit more… established, and see how that goes.”</p><p>“You - what?” Lambert stared in disbelief. Aiden had just discovered that the man he was dating was an <em> alcoholic, </em>and then came out with something like that. “We haven’t even fucked yet, how do you know I’m not shit in bed? What if I’m secretly a furry? You don’t know.” </p><p>Aiden smirked. “If you wish to don a fursuit in bed, then that’s up to you, or indeed anywhere, I’m very open. And I’m also able to teach my partners what I need from them should they wish to learn.”  </p><p>“If they wish to le - ?” Cut off by the arrival of the starters, Lambert murmured a thank you to the server and then continued to glare with narrowed eyes across the table as they ate. Aiden just beamed at him in his usual way. <em> No, you can’t blind-side me with an offer of going steady. </em>It wasn’t allowed. When the plates were gone, he continued. “You don’t even know why my wife divorced me. What if I’m violent? I could be a psychopath.”</p><p>“Mmhm. I think that Donald Trump’s skin returning to a normal colour is more likely, but please go on.”</p><p>
  <em> What the fuck?  </em>
</p><p>“Alright, what if I was kicked out of the army for treason? What if I was one of those warped fuckers that kicked and pissed on prisoners? What if it was a dishonourable discharge?” <em> Treason </em> was a little bit exaggerated. He’d be in jail, but he was panicking, because Aiden seemed completely unphased by it all.</p><p>“Was it?” Not that it really mattered. Aiden had already made his decision; if there was one character flaw he had, it was a single-minded drive to get what he wanted once he’d decided he wanted it.</p><p>“No… almost.”</p><p>“Almost?”</p><p>“I - ,” Lambert sat back and took a deep breath. “I disobeyed a direct order to retreat, and stayed to try and remove a bomb from someone. She was begging for help and I couldn’t leave her.” Blurted out at one hundred miles an hour, he glanced around the restaurant and felt panic start to bubble in his chest. He was so focused on that feeling that he jumped in his seat when Aiden’s hand settled gently over the back of his fingers; Aiden’s palm was warm and soft, and Lambert focused in on how his fingertips circled tenderly across his skin.</p><p>“Easy. You’re worried because I’ve backed you into a corner. It’s fine, if you would prefer to slow down a bit, that’s all good.” Aiden’s hand didn’t leave when their main course arrived, and Lambert’s own slowly turned over to brush his fingers tentatively across his palm in return. He didn’t <em> say </em> anything, just calmly picked up his fork with his free hand and picked over the vegetables on his plate. The soft caresses continued, Aiden’s fingers sliding carefully over each of his, circling around his palm and wandering a little higher to his wrist now and then. It brought an easy level of calm and the panic of being <em> cornered </em> - because Aiden was right, he <em> had </em> - completely evaporated.</p><p>Aiden allowed him to keep hold of his hand even as they walked back up the stairs to street level, and Lambert used it to pull him forward. With his own back against the car, he tugged Aiden until their bodies lined up - a non-verbal request for permission - and kissed him. </p><p>It was tentative at first. Aiden released Lambert’s hand and slid his palms around his waist; he teased his tongue between the plush lips he’d been admiring since their first meeting and tasted the dark chocolate dessert they’d finished moments earlier. He couldn’t help but take the lead, and pressed himself firmly against Lambert’s body, one hand lifting to rest on the roof of the car as he slid a leg between firm thighs and pulled away to bury his face in Lambert’s neck. “Can I take that as a ‘yes’?” </p><p>“You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for,” Lambert croaked; he could feel the hand gliding up his chest, and then wrap firmly around the back of his neck; grounding, and firm. “I’m so - I’m not - there are - .”</p><p>“Please let me try?” </p><p>“Okay,” Lambert whispered, and melted into another kiss that stole the strength from his legs and the equilibrium from his mind. Thankfully, Aiden had him completely pinned to the side of the car; he gladly ceded the responsibility for keeping them upright.</p><p>***</p><p>“Do you think he realises the cabin light’s on?” Geralt folded one arm across his chest and sipped at the cup of tea in his hand.</p><p>“Don’t think so. Clearly the food wasn’t enough though. Maybe we should put something in the microwave for him?” Eskel smirked, head canted to the side, hands on his hips. They were watching Lambert as he straddled Aiden in the BMW, hands cupped under his jaw and mouths locked together in an apparently endless kiss.</p><p>“Hm,” Geralt turned his back. “Never been so happy to lose a bet.” </p><p>“You’re a big softie.”</p><p>“Never pretended to be otherwise. Goodnight, Eskel.” He headed off with his tea to his room. Ciri had gone home that evening.</p><p>Eskel sighed and turned all the lights off apart from a single lamp by the stairs. A light in the darkness to help Lambert navigate his way back. <em>Like</em> <em>Aiden.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry for the delay, team. I've written 6k of Aiden/Lambert smut unhelpfully out of sequence, which delayed the actual story writing (it's not time yet).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. A Cat Named Virtute (E)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> Oh man, it was going well. </em> Lambert enjoyed every fucking second he spent with Aiden. Liked making him smile, and it was so easy. Shit that made Eskel sigh in exasperation, or Geralt roll his eyes, made Aiden grin like an idiot. The kissing was great too. The way Aiden held him during it. No one had ever had that much easy control over him; a simple hand at the back of his neck, an arm around his waist, fingers cupping beneath his thigh. So when he was invited over for a cup of tea on their way back from a date, he readily agreed. </p><p>"Huh. Nice," Lambert eyed the rather vast detached house as they pulled onto the gravel drive. A gabled roof, half stucco and half red brick work wrapped in ivy. A bay window on both top and bottom floors with a heavy wooden front door obscured by blooming hanging baskets. In fact, the outskirts of the driveway were bursting with colour; Aiden clearly had a thing for flowers. The garage door lifted automatically just as the gate behind them was shutting, and Aiden parked inside. "Oh shit, is that a speed triple RS?" Lambert darted out of the passenger seat to admire the bike in its paddock stand. "Are you in the market for marriage, or - ?" He ran his hand across the red trellis frame and whistled. "Beauty."</p><p>Aiden watched Lambert circle the bike. He ran his eyes across those broad shoulders and down the curve of his waist to that devastatingly tight backside, and recalled the easy way Lambert had surrendered to him pinned up against his car. It had been absolute. Aiden was pretty certain that he would've just spread his legs had he been asked to, and the thrill had knotted deep in Aiden's stomach. "You like all of my expensive toys?"</p><p>"Yes. If you haven't taken this on the track, then it's wasted on you and I'm confiscating it. Nice end can."</p><p>"I think I need you to take a closer look at the car actually. It was handling oddly." The garage door clicked shut behind him and Aiden decided he <em> wanted</em>, so he would <em> have</em>.</p><p>"It was?" Lambert perked up and glanced back at the BMW. He needed precisely zero luring back to it, and left the bike with a final appreciative pat on its fuel tank. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he approached the bonnet. "I'll take a look and see if I can find anything immediately obvious, if not I'll take it out around the bl--." Cut off as Aiden drew up behind him and pushed him forward. He threw both his hands out to catch himself before he face-planted onto the car. "What the fuck?"</p><p>"I'd like to try something, see if you like it, I think you will." Aiden kept his hands on Lambert's hips, pressing his own against his rear. He wasn't pinned, not yet, just lightly held. Lambert was enjoying it already though, because his hips canted subtly and Aiden could see the flush rising up the back of his neck.  "I would like to make you come on my car. Just my hands, and my voice, no penetration. Do I have your consent?"</p><p>"Y - yes," Lambert just about managed, because having Aiden behind him, even with the lightest touch, made his heart hammer and his body hum. He ran his eyes over the expensive paintwork, and then focused on Aiden's reflection in the windscreen. </p><p>"This is only very light, but if I do or say anything that upsets you, or makes you feel uncomfortable, you need to call it off straight away. You do this by shouting a word. Choose one now." He was slowly undoing Lambert's belt as he spoke, careful to guide the buckle away from the surface of his car. </p><p>"Fuck, like a safeword?" His answer was a quiet hum as the button and fly of his jeans popped open. Shit, he was already hard. Just the promise of being touched and his body had sprung to attention like… well, like a fucking squaddie. "Halo." The thirty thousand foot free fall. Apt.</p><p>"Okay. Mine's arrow. Alright?"</p><p>"Yeah - mm, oh fuck." Lambert dropped his head as Aiden's hand pushed inside his boxers, the other shoving his jeans down until they fell to his ankles of their own accord. </p><p>"Make as much noise as you want, but you are to remain perfectly still. Do you understand?"</p><p>"Yes, Aiden - ahh, f-f- mm." <em> Still </em> was difficult, especially when Aiden pushed his boxers down and freed his cock completely, soft palm gliding from base to tip, shifting his foreskin across his head. He could feel Aiden's expensive slacks against his bare ass, and his face flushed. <em> Exposed </em>.</p><p>"You love my expensive toys - they excite you, don't they?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"You like my suits as well. You want to feel them against you - like what they symbolise - it turns you on - ."</p><p>"Mmm, yes." Lambert had thrown himself across the centre console when Aiden had dropped him off home last. They could have kissed easily in their own seats, but Lambert had wanted to be on him, to run his hands over that silk shirt and feel the line of Aiden's body against his. They hadn't even fucked, but Lambert felt like they had when he stumbled up the stairs to the flat. Now, as Aiden recalled all of those feelings with a hand slowly pumping his cock, he had to fight the urge to thrust forward into the grip. "Aiden, please, faster."</p><p>"You want to be mine too - want me to care for you like I do everything else I have - tell me you want to be mine, Lambert."</p><p><em> Oh fuck, he really did. </em>"Yes, yes Aiden, please… nfgh - mm." </p><p>Aiden adjusted, and Lambert whined at the loss of him against his ass, only to moan loudly when two fingers pressed behind his balls. The pressure was firm, and when they moved in wide circles they found a point that made him quake. Didn't even know it existed. He pushed back lightly into it and shuddered again. <em> Technically not moving, right? </em></p><p>"Look at you leaking all over my car - you want to spread your legs for me, don't you? Want me to fuck you right here - to own you - want my thick cock stretching your hole until you can't breathe - you're a little slut for it -."</p><p>A whimper as Lambert felt the pressure build. Precome dripped in long, thin beads from his slit and Aiden smoothed a thumb through it, testing Lambert's control. </p><p>"Good, because you're mine." Aiden squeezed the base of Lambert's cock as he came, angling his shaft to coat the buffed grey paint of the the car hood in his spend. He lifted his hand to take a handful of Lambert's hair, and tugged him back. "Lick it clean." He watched Lambert sink to his knees and lap through the milky smear only long enough to register the submission, before yanking him up into a kiss. Aiden pressed himself between Lambert's legs, seating him on the bonnet of the car as he pulled their hips close. This wasn't about him. He wanted to see whether Lambert would accept it - <em> enjoy it </em> - so now they had to discuss, but he needed just one more hit of control. Feeling Lambert's body yield, his thighs spreading easily, his mouth opening and spine arching, was <em> perfection</em>. "You did so well. Sounded so beautiful." He whispered into Lambert's lips, studying hazy brown eyes. With gentle, guiding touches he helped Lambert right his clothes, and then pulled him into the house. Within ten minutes, Lambert had a cup of tea in his hands and a plate of biscuits, which he was happily powering through.</p><p>"You have a very nice ass." Aiden grinned over the top of his cup.</p><p>"Thank you. I work hard on it." Lambert swore quietly when half a biscuit dropped into his tea, and fished it out with a spoon.</p><p>"We need to talk about whether you liked that. Did you feel safe? Did you enjoy it?" </p><p>"Not very good at talking," Lambert murmured, but when he looked up Aiden was waiting patiently. "I - I liked it."</p><p>"What parts?"</p><p>"The part where you touched my dick."</p><p>"Lambert…"</p><p>"Alright, fuck, I - I liked feeling like I was… yours. And, I liked… uh," he rubbed the back of his head and looked at the table. "I liked it when you were between my legs. And had my hair… but if you call me a slut again, I will slash your tyres and put diesel in your car."</p><p>"Oh, thank god," Aiden sighed with relief, and when Lambert raised an eyebrow, gestured vaguely, "I prefer praising. It - I want you to feel good, not demeaned. I'm probably a bit possessive, but I enjoy taking care of my lovers. In every way. I just wanted to see what you reacted to. How about the car? Was that okay?"</p><p>"I love that car so much I'd lick every inch of it if you asked me to."</p><p>"Hm. How about every inch of me?" Lambert flushed and busied himself with the biscuits. Aiden smirked, "You're going to have to get through the embarrassment of talking to me. I like talking. And I talk openly." </p><p>"Yeah, worked that out," Lambert returned the sardonic grin, and then leaned back. "Nice kitchen. Doesn't look very used." Contemporary aesthetic, but with a few old world nods; nice timber work surfaces, white tiling and a wooden floor. They were currently sat at a central island on rustic stools. It looked out over a huge back garden; grass was well groomed, flower beds were brimming with colour, and there was a huge fig tree in the middle. Hmm. Italian families had fig trees in their back garden. </p><p>"I don't get a lot of time to cook. Lots of food on the go and such. Clients take me out for dinner as well."</p><p>"Hm. Well, maybe when you're in Cambridge I can cook for you. Eskel won't mind eating leftovers or having a takeaway a few nights a week."</p><p>"You'd do that for me?" Aiden's eyes went so wide, so surprised, and Lambert just wanted to kiss him. So instead, he went with sass.</p><p>"Yes, anything for my <em> Dom </em>."</p><p>"Well, of course you're a brat, what did I expect?" </p><p>Lambert clicked his tongue with a wink.</p><p>***</p><p>It had all started when Aiden asked innocently whether he could meet Mason and Zoe at some point. He didn’t feel it was appropriate that he should just ‘turn up’ in their lives one day unannounced. It needed to be carefully handled. When Lambert had physically crumbled - his shoulders fell, the light vanished from his eyes, his hands in his lap - it had taken Aiden all of about ten seconds to cobble together the story. Paperwork had been demanded - “this is what I do, Lambert” - and lunch at Aiden’s house organised. This was the kind of thing that couldn’t be discussed in a coffee shop, so he’d picked Lambert up and driven him out to the suburbs again for cake and tea.</p><p>“What cowboy allowed you to sign these papers?” Aiden leafed through the file that Lambert had brought. “It essentially yields all custody rights to Keira on the basis of ill health, but doesn’t directly reference - .” He looked up and realised Lambert was no longer looking at him, but down at the hands in his lap. “Speak to me, kitten.”</p><p>“I have - uh -,” he tilted his head, eyes wandering the panelled walls of Aiden’s study, “I have - they call it PTSD.” Everything was immaculately furnished with a comfortable, rustic aesthetic; an eclectic mix of different woodgrains, autumnal colours. </p><p>Aiden lowered the papers slowly back into his lap and studied Lambert closely. That was difficult to say out loud, and he noted the careful, dissociative terminology; ‘they call it -’. He clearly didn’t acknowledge it very often, and was feeling somewhat out of his depth in an environment he wasn’t yet familiar with. He would be soon. Aiden was determined that Lambert should see this house as a sanctuary for him should he need it. “Right. Well, your doctor and your therapist should have written you a reference, where is it?”</p><p>“I didn’t have a doctor or a therapist.” </p><p>“You didn’t have a doctor or a therapist.”</p><p>“That’s what I just said.” Growled.</p><p>“Alright. Do you have either now?”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>Aiden placed the papers on the coffee table and leaned back on the sofa. Lambert had chosen to occupy the armchair opposite, and still wasn’t looking up. “Lambert, look at me.”</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>“Lambert.”</p><p>Slowly, those two brown eyes lifted from where they were studiously examining the floor and rested on Aiden. “I don’t.”</p><p>“Hmm,” he shifted to the side and patted the couch in request. “Come sit?”</p><p>The offer was considered for a few silent moments, before Lambert slipped from the armchair and fell down next to Aiden. He accepted the arm that wrapped around his waist and tilted his head to the offered shoulder. Aiden spoke softly, “The scars on your face. Did you walk around until the wounds miraculously stopped bleeding?”</p><p>Lambert tensed, but it eased when Aiden pressed a kiss to the top of his head and stroked up and down his bicep. A grumbled answer, “No. They were sewn up by medics.”</p><p>“Right. So it required medical assistance - from someone who knew the wound, and knew how to fix it - for the wound to begin healing. Obviously, your body needed to do some of the work, but it required help.”</p><p>“Yes. Look - I know what you’re going to say - and - .”</p><p>“The problem is that even a donkey-level lawyer - like the kind that allowed a vulnerable man to sign away the access rights to his children - would take one look at untreated PTSD and deconstruct <em> any </em> case presented.”</p><p>Lambert pulled away. “Don’t call me that.”</p><p>“What? Vulnerable?”</p><p>“I’m not fucking vulnerable.” He tried to stand, but Aiden still had an arm around him; it dropped to his waist and he growled in irritation. “You’ve known me for what? A couple of weeks and you think you <em> know </em>me - .”</p><p>“I’ll stop you there,” Aiden bent forward to try and find the eyes that were avoiding him. “I know what you’ve <em> told </em> me. <em> Tell </em> me why you don’t consider yourself vulnerable. You’ve <em> told </em> me that you have tried to self-medicate, you’ve <em> told </em> me that you’ve been living homeless, and now that you have PTSD. So tell me more and I can begin building an accurate picture.”</p><p>“You talk so fucking much,” Lambert sighed and slumped.</p><p>“Lawyer.”</p><p>“Yeah… look, I can’t deal with therapists. I saw so many as a kid and it just - it was just a way for people to tick a box and say they were doing something about me. It didn’t fucking help anything.”</p><p>“As a kid?”</p><p>Lambert reached to the hem of his shirt and tugged it up until he could point at a scar on his side. “This is where my dad stabbed me with fabric scissors when I was eight,” he twisted to display another on his back. “He smashed one of those big Sports Direct cups on me when I was ten. There are others, and lots of stuff that didn’t mark. I went into care for five years at eleven. They make you attend these shitty, useless therapy sessions so the government can say they’re helping. Just loads of people that look at you with pity, like you're this pathetic piece of shit, and that you're damaged. I joined the army to get out.” Before Lambert could lower his shirt, Aiden brushed his hand over the revealed skin, his touch was light and goosebumps erupted in its wake. He was fixated. Not in the usual ‘passing interest’ way, but genuinely studying each nick with his fingertips. </p><p>As he touched, he renewed his image of the man in front of him. For all the hardships Lambert had suffered, he had chosen tenderness, protecting it behind prickles just to make sure that wasn't snatched from him too. He loved his children, he loved his friends. The only person he <em> didn't </em> love was himself. Aiden would change that. Lambert deserved better than he allowed himself to have. “Can you take your shirt off for me?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Take your shirt off. I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” Aiden circled his fingers again to prove his point.</p><p>“Yeah, I know - but - .” Those hands were so soft, still on his skin, still tracing the line at his hip. Lambert tugged his shirt over his head and shifted when Aiden’s grip adjusted to turn him. He sat with a straight back and squared shoulders and Aiden ran his hands over every line and curve; he passed his thumbs over knotted scar tissue and fluttered fingers across smoother skin and Lambert bit his lower lip when they appeared ‘round the front and pressed up his abdomen to his chest. “Aiden - that - .” <em> Feels really nice. </em></p><p>“Hmm. You’re beautiful. A tapestry of experiences. I won’t make you relive them, that's not my place but...” he pulled Lambert back against him and met no resistance; the prickly, defensive man seemed to have left, replaced by a soft, pliant one that was happy to flop across his lap and have his chest stroked. “I can get your children back, Lambert. But I need you to work with me.”</p><p>“What do I need to do?”</p><p>“You need to be on a treatment programme for both your PTSD, and your alcoholism. You may not think it works, but to an outside mediator it shows that you are managing your conditions. On the back of that, you can then seek employment. We need to build a picture of a capable, loving father that they will accept. It’s about playing their game, on their terms, so you get what you want,” he stroked his hand over Lambert’s head, scratching his fingers through his hair. “You love your children, and they have a right to their dad, especially when he's as dedicated and as loving as you are.”</p><p>“You’re just saying that ‘cause I took my shirt off for you.” A faint smirk, but his eyes were hazy.</p><p>“I must admit, I’m quite enjoying the view,” Aiden traced his fingers around the line of Lambert’s pectoral. “If I give you my word, on my honour, on… my BMW, and Virtute, that I will get you your children back - .”</p><p>“What’s Virtute?”</p><p>“She’s my cat. Currently asleep on my bed upstairs, I believe. A large, overfed British shorthair. You didn't meet her last time because she was out mousing.”</p><p>“So… is this a plea from a cat named Virtute? For me to go into therapy?” He was delirious from how good Aiden’s hands were, he was certain; they were running over his chest, neck and head, and Lambert was struggling to keep his eyes open. It was like the simple act of allowing Aiden to care for him in this way had made him feel <em> drunk. </em></p><p>Aiden smiled, somewhat sadly. Lambert had no idea. His blasé comment wasn’t deliberate. “Yes. It is.”</p><p>“How old is Virtute?”</p><p>“She’s nearly six.”</p><p>“So she knows what she’s talking about.”</p><p>“Yes. She’s very wise. Knows a lot about this sort of thing,” he combed his fingers through Lambert’s hair again, and then brushed over his eyebrows. “If I make some phone calls this afternoon, will you attend therapy?”</p><p>“You promise, if I do this, I’ll see Mason and Zoe.”</p><p>“I promise.” Aiden’s company had dealt with such cases for years. There was an entire department devoted to child custody battles. They charged a fortune. Lambert would get everything for free.</p><p>“Then yes. For Mason and Zoe.” Before, there had been no chance. No guarantee; no way out. What was the point if Keira put up barriers? It was a vicious cycle. Every time he attended meetings, sessions - all of that bullshit - she found a way to deny him still. Because the law was on her side. But if Aiden could - he knew what he was talking about. He knew people, and things - and if it didn’t work then Lambert could just - the therapy could then -</p><p>Lambert fell asleep sprawled across Aiden’s lap. He slept through the phone calls, and when Aiden gently shuffled out from underneath him to find his laptop and begin pinging off emails to his underlings. It was a deep, peaceful sleep, and once Aiden draped a fleece blanket over him, he was joined by a very large, purring ball of grey fur, with bright amber eyes. She sat right up against him. When Lambert stirred, saw her and placed his hand in her plush fur, she just purred even <em>louder</em>, and he smiled as he drifted off to sleep again. In fact, said ball of warmth and love purred <em>so</em> loudly, that it was impossible for his brain to believe he was anywhere else but in someone’s living room in the south-east of England. <em> Virtute was pleased with the new addition. </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter 17 was getting <em>long</em>, so I've split it into two parts.</p><p>Chapter titled after "Plea From a Cat Named Virtute" by The Weakerthans (great cover by Frank Turner too, which I prefer).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Demons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier invited Eskel out for lunch on a weekday. It was a couple of days until his birthday party, and Eskel was still reluctant to attend. Couldn’t really blame him; he’d be the oldest one there by a country mile and actually, come to think of it, probably didn’t enjoy that type of thing anyway. But there were more pressing matters to deal with. Mainly this latent desire currently sizzling between him and Geralt, and the resulting feelings of insecurity that Jaskier was doing his best to put into perspective. It was just because he was <em> serious </em> about this one. Granted, he’d thought he was serious about some previous relationships as well, but none of them had been… <em> none of them had been Eskel. </em></p><p>“One chicken and bacon baguette,” Jaskier plonked the order down on the table. It was a warm afternoon and they’d chosen to sit outside by the river. Eskel was lounging back in the sun, his eyes closed. With mediterranean ancestry, his skin was turning the most beautiful olive colour, and Jaskier was damned jealous. “How’s the marking?”</p><p>“Endless. At this rate, I’m going to need another year to complete my dissertation,” Eskel plucked the bottle of water from the tray and unscrewed the cap. “Now, your text asked whether we could talk and I had a heart attack, so please put me out of my misery.”</p><p>“Oh, shit, no - I didn’t - ,” Jaskier chuckled and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Eskel. That’s not what this is for. I don’t tend to buy people I’m about to dump baguettes either, so chill out.”</p><p>“Well, thank fuck, I’ve been going over and over the last few months trying to figure out what I did wrong.”</p><p>Jaskier squinted. “Why didn’t you just text me? Why assume <em> you </em> had done something wrong?” He knew why. The more he’d spoken to Triss about the more subtle symptoms of PTSD, the more he identified them in Eskel. He didn’t think he was loveable; he worked <em> very </em> hard to make himself worthy of Jaskier’s time (in his eyes - Jaskier thought his mere existence was enough). He’d witnessed periods of vacancy when Eskel stared off into the middle distance, and there had been a handful of nightmares. There was lots of medication to keep it all under wraps - ten whole pills swallowed each morning - but Eskel managed himself well. Didn’t stop him feeling inadequate though, did it?</p><p>“Just - the usual,” he smiled, drank some more water and began opening his baguette. “Come on then. What is it?”</p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier stirred his iced coffee. “More precisely, you and Geralt.”</p><p>Didn’t miss a beat. “Right. What about Geralt and I?”</p><p>“Are you - or have you ever been - in love with each other?”</p><p>Eskel froze now, halfway through a bite of his lunch. He placed the baguette down on the tray and brushed the crumbs of his hands. “We’re brothers of circumstance. We’ve been through a lot together. He named his daughter after me.”</p><p>“Eskel, that’s not what I mean, and you know it. I’ve - ,” Jaskier grit his teeth, looked away to steady his insecurity to keep a level head, and then continued. “The way you look at him when you think no one is looking, and the way he looks at you. That’s not band of brothers stuff. There’s something rather… <em> strong </em> there, and I’m concerned that I may be standing in the way of it.”</p><p>“There’s nothing there, Jaskier. Perhaps there could have been many, many years ago, but not now. He was married for a short time, has a child. Geralt is not a gay man, and I’m not into <em> turning </em> straight ones, even if I did have - these - even if what you’re saying was true,” he shuffled forward in his seat. “Besides, I have you. Why would I want anyone else?”</p><p>Jaskier should feel comforted, and he allowed his hands to be scooped up in those big paws that he loved so much, but Eskel was denying it, and that was <em> bad. </em> He’d imagined this going differently. Perhaps a confession that he <em> did </em> have feelings, but there was a complication, or - something, but not outright denial. “Eskel, please don’t lie to me. I - I can see it when you’re together,” he paused. “Am I your consolation prize? I’ve noticed one or two similarities.” <em> Not many, granted, but key ones.  </em></p><p>“I - ,” Eskel withdrew his hands back across the table, and looked <em> wounded </em>. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel that way, but it’s not true.”</p><p>“Oh fuck,” Jaskier pinched the bridge of his nose. How could someone be <em> so good </em> at dissecting other people’s examples of love, and be so horrendously blind to his own heart? There was an epic poem in here somewhere that needed to be written, but Jaskier was not the man for the job. “Eskel, I - .”</p><p>“Jaskier, I’m in love with you. Potentially to the point of being blinded to what is best for you at times. I’ve been thinking about what your father said, and - .”</p><p>“Wait, wait, wait. Rewind,” Jaskier held up both hands. “First of all, don’t hide a declaration of love <em> inside </em> a longer exposition. <em> Secondly, </em> don’t then taint it with mention of that cretin. I was expecting <em> poetry</em>, Eskel. A moonlit beach, with flowers.”</p><p>“Ah,” he looked crestfallen again, and Jaskier realised he was ripping chunks out of Eskel’s confidence and hated himself for it. It had never been quite this <em> effortless </em> to do so; clearly mention of Geralt had shaken him. Usually he would’ve called him a brat and moved on. Eskel continued, “I apologise. I thought I’d - perhaps I should have said it sooner?” </p><p>“No. Now’s perfect.” Jaskier smiled and stroked his fingers across the back of one of those big hands. “Because I love you too. Quite scary really.”</p><p>“Mm.” Eskel still looked low, and Jaskier wasn’t sure how to fix it. He didn’t get the chance either, because Eskel checked his watch and then stood. “I need to get back to work.”</p><p>“You’ve still got half an hour - .”</p><p>“I, uh - I have the essays, and - I’ll see you later.”</p><p><em> Fuck. </em> Jaskier slumped back in his seat as Eskel walked away - shoulders hunched, head low - and realised he’d royally screwed that up. They hadn’t even got onto a conversation about how it could actually work with some time and effort. <em> No. </em> It needed to be said. Needed to be out in the open. Perhaps he’d somehow approached the <em> wrong </em> pining would-be lover. That left one other. One that could potentially be even <em> more </em> difficult to reach.</p><p>“Help me, Captain Geralt Rivia. You are my only hope.” He whistled like R2-D2 and flopped with a dramatic sigh. <em> Men. </em></p><p>***</p><p>The problem with someone like Alfred Pankratz is that he didn’t quite understand the power of the spoken word. Even when outwardly dismissed, words can still be internalised; they can still leave invisible marks on someone already nursing insecurities about… well, everything. And Eskel kept ruminating over one phrase in particular. ‘Dangerous’. Was Jaskier <em> safe </em> with them? Eskel sat in his office and thought of Jaskier extensively. Thought of the Nightingale in Keats’ poem, because his brain had latched onto <em> that </em> too. It was as if Geralt’s arrival back home had destabilised him in a way he could never have predicted.</p><p>Was Eskel’s happiness with Jaskier just the same as the “drowsy numbness” experienced by Keats? That Eskel has allowed himself to be carried away by the Nightingale's happiness. By the beauty of the Nightingale’s song. Untroubled and unplagued by Eskel’s anxieties and experiences, just like the Nightingale is unplagued by the trials of humanity. But even the Nightingale flies away and leaves the poet empty, bereft and unsure whether it was all just a dream. The Nightingale escapes with its life, and its song, because it is eternal in the poem. Jaskier isn’t immortal though. He’s vulnerable, and young. His beauty is in his song, but also his innocence. Is Eskel’s world… <em> safe enough? </em> Could he keep Jaskier happy now that he was aware of something that should have died a long time ago? Jaskier was perhaps better off without him… </p><p>Regrettably, Eskel got his answer one weekday evening, and his world began to fall apart.</p><p>Gunfire broke through the still silence of the night and Eskel immediately snagged Jaskier from the bed and covered him on the floor. Jaskier yelped, “Eskel, wh - what’s going on?” He didn’t receive an answer, but Eskel moved quickly when it became clear that the threat wasn’t immediately in the room. Crouched low to the ground, he cracked the door and peered out onto the mezzanine. At first he saw nothing, and then he caught sight of Lambert exiting his room, conducting precisely the same type of reconnaissance. Eskel slipped through the door and padded to Lambert’s side. </p><p>A fist immediately sprang into the air. <em> Stop. </em> Lambert was staring through the gap in Geralt’s door. His right hand tapped his left forearm, and then raised into the air; finger gun, but with elbow low. <em> Enemy has a handgun. </em> But it wasn’t an enemy. <em>It was Geralt.</em> Eskel’s blood thundered through his ears, and then he felt Jaskier crouch down behind him. Lambert acted on instinct and drew Jaskier to his chest, one arm latched around his shoulders, and Eskel moved forward. The bedroom light was on; Geralt was still fully dressed, his bed undisturbed.</p><p>“Geralt.” His voice carried like thunder on such a silent night. “Wolf.” A metallic click and Eskel placed his back to the wall right next to the door, hand extending to nudge the door open. He waved his hand in the gap and half expected to feel a bullet burn through his palm. “Geralt, I’m coming in. I’m unarmed.” He shifted and tilted his head down. Jaskier could hear Eskel panting, and could see him shaking, but despite his terror, he still rose slowly to his feet and turned to face a man with a handgun in nothing but his boxers. </p><p>Geralt immediately turned to point the gun at him, both hands still braced around the grip and eyes unfocused. Eskel raised his hands immediately and looked away with a stuttering breath. He had never expected to have a gun pointed at him again. Anyone that boasted that they were unaffected by such a thing were liars. Even soldiers, trained to stare down the barrel, still felt that stab of fear. It was natural. Survival instinct. But Eskel wasn't a soldier anymore; that part of him had died in Afghanistan, and it had taken him years to build a new version of himself. A version that still carried the scars of the old one though; he knew what those bullets would feel like when they punched into his body. “Geralt. Focus on where you are.” He kept his voice level, even though every fibre of his being screamed at him to run. “You’re at home. There’s no one in this room but you and I.”</p><p><em> How many shots had there been? Three? Four? </em> That was a P226. The same gun Geralt had carried for many years. Fifteen round magazine, but they all extended them to twenty. A lot of bullets. He’d only need to fire three to kill them all. One to kill Jaskier, one to kill Lambert, one to... “Geralt, please…” Eskel moved forward and paused when Geralt’s hands tightened around the grip. “Come back.” <em> Ciri </em> had been in this flat. With that gun. <em> Jaskier </em> was in this flat with that gun. <em> Keep moving forward. </em>At this distance, even if he fires, Eskel could be an obstacle enough for Lambert to disarm him. </p><p>“Eskel,” Geralt blinked, his voice hoarse. “Eskel - what - ? I don’t - .” His grip on the weapon loosened, and Eskel’s hand carefully rested over the top of the barrel. There was no resistance when he tugged it free, his thumb flicking the safety back into place. “I don’t remember falling asleep - I was - cleaning it - I -.” He looked around the room - distressed, panicked. He'd seen something. Something that had meshed with the vivid, horrific nightmare in his head to become a reality before his eyes. But now there was nothing. Just his room. Just his best friend, pale with fear, at the end of the gun <em> he </em> was holding.</p><p>“Some of the medication they gave you will make you drowsy. You probably just dropped off without realising,” Eskel croaked, one hand wrapping behind Geralt’s neck to pull him forward into an embrace. “It’s alright. You didn’t hurt anyone. It’s alright.”</p><p>Lambert herded Jaskier away into Eskel’s room and closed the door. He sat on the bed for what felt like hours. The sun was rising when Eskel eventually appeared again. There were a series of metallic clicks as he disassembled the gun; the ammunition he locked into his safe. “Eskel - ?” Jaskier called his name, but he didn’t seem to hear, because he thumped the safe shut and stumbled into the bathroom. The door was thrown shut behind him. Seconds later, Jaskier heard the sound of the toilet lid and Eskel retching. The rest of the flat was silent.</p><p>“Eskel?” Jaskier padded over to the bathroom door. “Can I come in?”</p><p>“Don’t.” </p><p>“You need help - is there medication you need - ? Can I get you water - ?”</p><p>“<em>Stop</em>.” His voice sounded raw, miserable, and Jaskier rested his forehead against the embossed wood of the door because he just <em> couldn't</em>. He could feel the tears in the back of his eyes. So many reasons for them. Fear - he'd never heard actual fucking gunshots before - worry - Eskel was in pain - sadness - Eskel didn't want him near. </p><p>"Let me help…"</p><p>"Go to bed, Jaskier. Please. I'll be out soon." A quiet thud as Eskel rolled away from the toilet and fell against one of the built-in cupboards. He drew his knees to his chest and buried his face against them as his entire body shook, trying to regain some control over the spiralling thoughts inside his head. Along with the flood of images from his final mission, from every agonising medical procedure, there was also a rush of harrowing realisations. Jaskier was not safe here. With him. Eskel couldn't have Jaskier. Look how easily he'd crumbled again. Look how unstable he was. The side of his face, his chest, his head, all burned in pain. He knew his medication was in the cupboard downstairs, but that would mean letting Jaskier see the wreck he actually was. The ugliness beneath the Saint Eskel veneer.</p><p>But Jaskier didn't go to bed. He sat down outside the bathroom door, unknowingly mirroring the same pose, and cried silent tears as he waited. At some point, he heard Lambert leave, but couldn’t do anything about it. Only hope he wasn’t going to find something alcoholic to numb the terror of what he’d just witnessed. Not only that, but it was <em> raining</em>. The thunder rumbled in the distance.</p><p>***</p><p>Several miles outside Cambridge, Aiden woke up to hammering on his front door at five o’clock in the morning. He stumbled out of bed and just had the awareness to grab his dressing gown. Virtute was snoring on the foot of the bed and rolled over in irritation. She didn’t like storms, but she was nowhere near as skittish as when she was a kitten. Too lazy. The hammering continued and Aiden glanced at the cricket bat by his front door as he put the latch on and opened it - “Lambert.”</p><p>“Sorry, I - ,” he flinched as lightning and thunder roared in the sky above, and Aiden immediately unlatched the door. Lambert was soaked. He was wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants, old combat boots and his jacket thrown over the top. No hood, not waterproof. He must have run the six miles out of town. “Sorry, I know it’s late. There’s just - I panicked and - I wasn’t - I -.”</p><p>“Calm down,” Aiden reached forward, pausing when Lambert backed away, eyes wide and anxious. “Let me help. You promised to let me try.”</p><p>“Right, yeah.”</p><p>Eventually, Aiden had Lambert dry and curled up in bed next to him; he pulled him close, legs and arms wrapped around him, and held him even once he’d stopped flinching from the storm and fallen asleep. They’d talk about it in the morning. Virtute didn’t mind the extra warm body and her purr competed with the thunder.</p><p>***</p><p>Eskel drove Jaskier back to his halls in the morning. He looked <em> worse </em>than Jaskier had ever seen him. His skin was grey, his eyes distant, and when he drew the car to a stop, he slumped back. “I will understand if you want to report last night to the police, but please be sure to mention the background.”</p><p>“What?” Jaskier gawped. “Are you serious? I would never - .”</p><p>“Thank you,” Eskel gripped the steering wheel. “You’re not safe with me. Not safe in my flat, not safe when we’re alone, I - .”</p><p>“Eskel, please don’t.” Jaskier could feel the tears stinging his eyes already.</p><p>“Until I can ensure that you are, we need to take a break. If you wish to make that break more permanent, then I will respect that too.”</p><p>“Please, I’m not - that wasn’t - I’m - I want to help, I want to - .”</p><p>“Jaskier,” Eskel barked, his tone sharp and Jaskier flinched. “You’re… you’re a <em> boy. </em> Twenty in a day. I can’t keep you in my world. It’s not… not <em> right. </em> With the misery and the demons. You could have been <em> shot </em> last night. By a man with special forces training, it would’ve been a killshot. No hospital visit. Nothing. <em> Dead. </em> At <em> twenty. </em>Because you made the mistake of -,” he clenched the steering wheel harder, “-  made the mistake of me.”</p><p>“Do I get a choice? I told you a few days ago that I <em>loved </em>you, and you said you loved me.”</p><p>“Sometimes you need to make difficult decisions to protect those you love.” Eskel's voice broke and he looked away. “Please get out of the car.”</p><p>“Eskel - .”</p><p>“Get out.” </p><p>Jaskier pulled the door handle and fled. In his heart of hearts, he knew this was a product of Eskel’s illness, but his heart felt brutalised in the most profound way. Eskel didn’t trust him. Not after everything he’d done - was that it? How could he prove he was trustworthy? Could handle it? </p><p>
  <em> How could he make this right again? </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Hollow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Flashback: Eskel deals with survivor's guilt and finds a way to rebuild himself.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Waking up with a tube down your throat is a harrowing experience at the best of times, but add in the last memory of your best friend being overpowered by militants and you have a recipe for disaster. Eskel woke and immediately the alarms on the army of machines around him began to scream. The nurses arrived in time to watch him rip the intubation tube from his mouth, and then vomit on the floor at the side of his bed. He tried to push them away, but they were more than a match for his paltry resistance, and eventually they found a sedative that sucked the fight out of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next time he returned to consciousness it was easier. He blinked into the dim room and methodically catalogued his senses. He could </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> lots of white walls, white ceilings, machines, but only with one eye. The other was black. He could smell disinfectant and that horrific ‘off’ scent of hospital food. He could hear people milling around outside his room, the beep of the machines and his own breathing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Still alive then. </span>
  </em>
  <span>His face was tight. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really</span>
  </em>
  <span> tight. The hand that lifted to investigate stopped short, held in place by a cuff made of soft material and velcro.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ahh, Esben, welcome back,” an unfamiliar voice using a name </span>
  <em>
    <span>no one</span>
  </em>
  <span> used, standing on his right side, so he couldn’t see, “You’re back in the UK. Would you like some water?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ge - .” Eskel tried, but his throat was dry. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>burned.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Ge - alt. Pl - .” Another tug at the restraints, but he didn’t have a voice. Didn’t have the energy. “‘Bert.” Another name. He sounded so hoarse, close to tears, and huffed in frustration through his nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. We’ll get you sat up, something to drink, and then your throat will feel better. You’ve been in a coma for two months. You need to take it slowly.” The water helped, but his throat and chest still burned. It would be another few days before he gained some awareness of just where he was. St Thomas’ Hospital in London. His injuries needed specialist treatment. They’d flown him home, which meant he was done. You didn’t get repatriated and ever return to the field. They were trying to repair the damage to his face, but it was likely the scarring would be extensive. It didn’t really register. Not yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Several weeks went by and Eskel became more mobile and lucid. No one was answering his questions. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Where’s Geralt? Where’s Lambert? Where’s Vesemir? </span>
  </em>
  <span>His voice slurred around the bandages and split in his lips, but they could definitely understand him. He asked them again and again - the doctors, visiting military personnel - but they just told him not to worry and focus on </span>
  <em>
    <span>himself. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He had three surgical procedures conducted on his face; agonising, with long weeks of recovery. The majority of the shrapnel had been removed from his torso while he’d been unconscious and he was physically healing well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They couldn’t do much for the nightmares other than give him sleeping pills so strong they knocked him out for twelve to fourteen hours at a time. Untenable considering the physiotherapy regime they had him on. So the nightmares endured. Burning spectres staggering through the desert, screaming in agony, the sight of Geralt falling to the sand, the relentless sound of gunfire, the explosion of bombs. His mind even provided the sounds of the children they left behind with their mothers perishing, because human brains were creative when they were hurting. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stay with me, Bear, stay with me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lambert’s voice. But where was he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One day he threw his food to the floor and started refusing treatment. The pain became excruciating, but he tore the drips from his arms and knocked the needles from their hands when they got close. “Tell me where they are.” A metallic growl. Demanding answers. They started proceedings to remove his legal competence through reasoning of diminished mental capacity, and therefore remove his right to refuse treatment, but the military stepped in and a week later Alfred Pankratz arrived at his bedside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sergeant Cirillo. My name’s Alfred Pankratz. I’ve been handed your case.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what?” Still slurred, the bandages around his face restricting the movement of his jaw, the stitches in his lip swelling it to twice its normal size.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were a victim of friendly fire. It has rendered you unfit for service, and therefore removed your livelihood. You’re due compensation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A dismissive grunt. “Where’re my team?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lambert Murphy is currently deployed in Afghanistan with another patrol; Andrew Vesemir was killed in the line of duty and Geralt Rivia is… a prisoner of war with al Qaeda.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The noise that Eskel made wasn’t human. Strangled agony. He threw his head back and screwed his eyes shut. Several of the monitors around him made concerned noises and Pankratz took a step back as a doctor and several nurses rushed in. He clawed at the bandages on his face and thrashed at the wires wrapped around his arms. The anguished panic was all consuming. Pankratz had to come back three days later after his hysteria had subsided, and the sedatives had worn off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From that moment, Eskel just felt numb. When they took the bandages off his face and he looked in the mirror for the first time, he just stared. The doctors behind him exchanged glances and notes were made in medical files. He was quick to anger, avoided the common rooms due to the noise, didn’t sleep much and when he did he woke up screaming. They got the big red stamp out and he had the diagnosis for the only wound left untreated: PTSD. They acted like this diagnosis was somehow useful to him. Why should he care? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As part of his treatment it was agreed that he could return home - or familiar territory at least - which meant heading back to Cambridge. Seven months after his return from the Middle East, Eskel’s notes were passed across to Addenbrookes and he swapped the grey backdrop of London for the red brick character of familiar pastures. His heart felt dead, his soul inert. Doctors spoke </span>
  <em>
    <span>at</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. He nodded along. He did everything they asked. Until one day, they let him walk out in the vain belief he would go back for appointments. He was given a small flat nearby, but he returned only rarely to change his clothes and check his mail. All the mirrors were quickly removed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spent the next few months at the bottom of a bottle, and the authorities that were meant to be keeping tabs on him kept losing track. The nightmares and the guilt dogged his every step as he prowled the streets of Cambridge like a hulking spectre. People flinched away from the wounds on his face. Some wouldn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span> at him when he spoke. He felt isolated. Abandoned. He had sacrificed everything, and people couldn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span> at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> should be the one with al Qaeda. It was the Signal that was meant to be next to the patrol leader. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eskel</span>
  </em>
  <span> should have been standing next to Vesemir, not Geralt. This was all his fault. So focused on screaming down the radio, so focused on trying to get through, he’d forgotten standard operating procedure. Geralt had just… fallen into the gap. He’d be dead by now. They didn’t keep prisoners that long. Pankratz wouldn’t show him the hostage video. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the depths of his grief, Eskel found himself at the highest point in Cambridge. The University Library Tower. Rumours said that it was full of Victorian Pornography. It was this inane thought that followed him as he broke through the lock barring the stairs from the public and made his way out onto the roof. Jack Daniels bottle in hand, he stood on the brink and gazed down at the cobblestones below. It took about ten minutes for the first student to spot him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, I have no idea how you flyers do it.” A familiar voice rumbled as unsteady booted feet clambered over the roof. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Letho. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He was still in military uniform, which meant he had just rotated home. “Nice view from up here though.” He wobbled. Letho was part of the ground team. Jumping out of aeroplanes, heights… not really his thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want, Letho?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” he sat down slowly about a metre away, his own legs dangling over the edge. “I looked for you at the hospital, then at the address they gave me, and then it just so happened I heard on a radio in a pub about a huge bloke on top of the library tower. Thought I’d come have a look, and lo and behold - .”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have until I get to the bottom of this, and then time’s up.” Eskel held up his mostly empty whiskey bottle. There were about three enthusiastic mouthfuls left, and he placed one foot on the edge of the roof in preparation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your lad Lambert has been discharged. Disobeying orders. I managed to keep it honourable due to ill health. He’s not in a good way. Old lady kicked him out shortly before he left on tour, definitely alcohol,” Letho murmured, banging his booted heels against the brickwork of the tower. “If you kill yourself tonight, then that airstrike will take two more victims, ‘cause that boy has the thousand yard stare real bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What help am I to him, Letho? It’s my fault we were hit in the first place. I should’ve kept coms on and - .”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not standard ops’ procedure, Eskel. You and I both know that. Stop trying to find a reason for what you’re feeling. Survivor’s guilt is what it is. You survived, he didn’t. That’s it. But if you fling yourself off here now, you’re killing Lambert too. You’re leaving Geralt’s brat with four fewer family members instead of two. People still need you. If that’s not a reason for living, then I don’t know what is. Make your choice.” Letho rose to his feet slowly and turned his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t quit your day job, Letho.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The response was a bitter laugh and the sound of receding boots. Eskel turned his eyes up to the sky, dark now that the sun had set - when had that happened? How long had he been up here?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>People still need you. If that’s not a reason for living, then I don’t know what is.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His life was worthless to him. He didn’t deserve it. But if he could help others, then perhaps it wouldn’t be wasted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eskel climbed down from the library tower and turned up to his therapy session the following day. They sat him down behind a piano and he poked tentatively at the keys. Eskel discovered a knack for it and enjoyed the patterns within the melodies he learned. Music created a serene space in his mind that the flashbacks and the nightmares could not reach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tidied up his flat and pulled out his beaten up old copy of Wordsworth. The following week he wrote a letter to his Masters supervisor - Professor Gerald Daniels - to ask for advice on applying for a PhD. With a first class honours degree and a distinction at masters level (earned while fighting abroad), his application stood out. He was accepted to start the following October, with the caveat that he assisted with the teaching and assessment. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good. Helping.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He met up with Yennefer and Ciri. The latter was frightened by him at first, but as soon as she realised it was still Uncle Eskel beneath the scarring she flopped into his arms and cried with relief. Lambert was harder to pin down. Angry. Alone. Unwilling to look for help. Eskel was able to provide him some reprieve when the money from his settlement came through; he bought an old industrial site and set Lambert to work on it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Something.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Even if it was only a temporary salve. And every time Lambert got into trouble, Eskel would be there, even if it never did much more than free him to get back into trouble later. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Still helping. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>One evening, Letho invited him over for pizza and beer. He accepted. And when Letho gently traced the scars on his face, some still raw and painful, and called him handsome, when he slid over the sofa and took him by the neck and kissed him, Eskel didn’t push him away. Letho wanted it, and it chased away the numbness. Even when Letho's fingers bruised Eskel's skin, even when his teeth and nails drew blood, even when Eskel just wanted it to be over, he let it happen. Feeling <em>this</em> was better than feeling... everything else. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He was helping. </span>
  </em>
  <span>When Letho moved back permanently, Eskel found him a job at the university and every time his mind began to present difficulties, he visited his flat and had it beaten from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So slowly, piece by piece, Eskel rebuilt himself for others. The more he could sacrifice, the more penance he could do, the more he felt like he had purpose. A castle built on a foundation of sand. A hollow man.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Weight of the World</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lambert awoke to something loud and fluffy rubbing along the side of his head. Virtute had decided he’d slept enough. He blinked into the warm sunlight streaming through the blinds, and it took him a moment to figure out exactly <em> where </em> he was. “Urgh, not in my mouth.” He gave her a light shove as she brushed along the front of his face, stepping over him to reach the inside of the bed, and she took this as a request to flop. “You know, this is why we have a bad reputation.” Muttered as he wiped stray pieces of blue-grey fur from his lips where it had caught on her way across.</p><p>The blanket slipped down his chest and he cast a quick glance around the room. He hadn’t really inspected it last night. Too panicked and too focused on the rumbling storm outside like a five year old fucking child. That he hated. The way that loud noise made him feel. Anything that sounded like explosions or gunfire. Hell, anything too sudden. Hopefully it didn’t follow him for the rest of his life. The room was tastefully decorated in soft colours; pale blues on the walls, a light grain on the wooden floors and furniture, with a off-white woven rug and a variety of throws. There were a few prints on the walls; Lambert recognised them as Turner reproductions (thanks, Eskel). Calm. Serene, but bright. Aiden liked <em> nice </em> things. “So why the fuck does he like me?” Lambert mused as he slid his legs out from under the duvet. He could hear Aiden talking animatedly downstairs.</p><p>Lambert spotted a pile of clothes on the chair nearby with a post-it-note on the top. ‘Thought you might want these. If you want to walk around naked, I would be open to this too.’ Aiden was athletically built where Lambert was broad, so their waist sizes were the same but the shirt stretched laughably across his shoulders and chest. Crop tops were not really his bag, so he left it and padded downstairs to find Aiden pacing his living room. He had a bluetooth earpiece in - which Lambert was going to tease him <em> relentlessly </em> for - and when he saw Lambert appear at the bottom of the stairs he blew him a kiss, but put four fingers up as a request to finish the call. Lambert didn’t miss the appreciative glance cast over his chest, and smirked as he headed into the kitchen.</p><p>The half-eaten packet of croissants on the coffee table indicated that Aiden hadn’t really had a fulfilling breakfast, so Lambert investigated the fridge and cupboards. Within five minutes he had a pan, a spatula, some eggs that were only just in date and a small collection of herbs and seasonings on the counter. He found the toaster - <em> no crumbs</em>, clearly never used - and a fresh loaf of bread. Aiden also had a coffee machine - <em> very much used </em> - and Lambert switched that on too. The call lasted longer than four minutes, and as Aiden was hanging up, Lambert appeared with scrambled eggs on toast and a coffee. He placed them down on the coffee table like a disciple presenting an offering to the gods, and Aiden smiled. “You needn’t have worried, I’ve had--.”</p><p>“Stale croissants and coffee. Eat the eggs, Aiden,” Lambert growled, and then returned to the kitchen to get his own. “You don’t even have any ketchup. You’ve clearly lived on your own for too long. That’s sacrilege and I’ll be fining you.”</p><p><em> Hoping to change that. </em>Aiden didn’t say it out loud, but it was the only thought in his head as he watched that beautifully sculpted back disappear into the kitchen again. The food was good. Perfectly textured and seasoned and Aiden realised he’d actually been far hungrier than the single stale croissant would have satiated. “What’s the fine?”</p><p>“Your BMW. I’m taking it. It’s now mine.” Lambert flopped down on the sofa and tucked in.</p><p>“That’s <em> steep </em>for ketchup. The law states that all fines should be fair and proportionate. I’m afraid I’m going to have to contest it in court.” </p><p>“Bring it. I’ve already marked it as mine. Law’s on my side.”</p><p>Aiden smirked and they ate in silence until the plates were clean. Only then did he reach across and carefully take Lambert’s hand in quiet request; he needn’t have worried, because Lambert fell into the embrace with all the grace of a demolished building. “Thank you for the food.” He ran an open palm down Lambert’s arm and then back up his chest.</p><p>“Shouldn’t you be at work?”</p><p>“I am. The great thing about being the boss is that sometimes I can just choose to work from home. I’ve only got to host one Zoom meeting. I’ve rescheduled some others.”</p><p>“You didn’t do that for me…”</p><p>“Mmhm. Why wouldn’t I? You turned up at my front door in a storm, at a stupid hour in the morning, terrified and shaking. I’m hardly going to turf you out so I can get my train into London.”</p><p>“It was cold.” Lambert wasn’t sure what to do with this idea. Someone had abandoned their plans and reorganised their day around him. So, obviously, contesting the idea that he should <em> shake </em> in fear was the logical step.</p><p>“It really wasn’t.”</p><p>Silence. Aiden waited patiently, leaning back so that he could tap at his laptop with one hand and pet Lambert with the other; his oversized lap cat stretched and rolled onto his back eventually, head propped on Aiden’s thigh. “There was an incident at home. One of my - uh - one of my brothers, he had an episode and it was a close call for a bit.”</p><p>“What do you mean by close call?” Work immediately put aside.</p><p>“I can’t - it was just close, alright?”</p><p>“Alright. Do you feel safe going home?”</p><p>“Yeah. Fine. I need to go back and check on them. S’just… fancied coming and seeing you. You’re better than the alternative.”</p><p>“Oh, you have a man on the side, do you?”</p><p>“Yeah. Jack Daniels.” Lambert folded his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes up in search of a response.</p><p>“You came to me instead of drinking it out of your system.” Aiden tilted his head to the side. “I’m - .”</p><p>“If you say you’re proud of me, I’ll eat your bluetooth earpiece. To be honest, I might do it anyway, you look like a pillock.” It didn’t matter. The soft, open look on Aiden’s face said it all anyway. He was flattered, happy and proud that Lambert had chosen him over a vice that had controlled his life for years. It hadn’t even felt like a difficult choice. Aiden made him feel good in a way that he’d never really experienced before. Totally logical choice.</p><p>“I know it might seem quite soon, but I’d like you to have a key for this house. Sometimes I have to go away, and I want you to be able to come here if you need it. My only rule is that you don’t let Virtute out the front door. She’s only allowed out the back.” He was always worried she’d run straight onto the main road. At least out back she never really left the garden.</p><p>“Your <em> only </em> rule? So, house parties, orgies, spontaneous redecoration, all fine?”</p><p>“An orgy? Hmm,” Aiden leaned back and stroked Lambert thoughtfully. “Actually, watching you get fucked by a couple of strapping men would really do it for me. Maybe in a swing so you can’t wriggle free. And when you’re all dripping and overstimulated, I’ll come in and blow your mind.” Lambert’s eyes went wide, and Aiden chuckled. “You need to up your game, kitten. I’m not so easily sassed into mute awe. Now, if you’re going to stay on my lap, I want those joggers off while I answer my emails.” Lambert did as he was told and Aiden admired the huge, prominent erection he was sporting while he worked. Eventually, he gave Lambert permission to deal with it and talked about all the things he’d get those strapping men to do to him.</p><p>***</p><p>Triss tucked Jaskier’s head under her chin and squeezed him tight. The tears had stopped for now, but she could still feel the misery leaking out of his every pore. “He’s not well, Jas.” She murmured into his hair. “Ninety percent of the time he’ll be the sweetest, loveliest person you’ll ever meet. Your Eskel. But he’s carrying this massive weight on his shoulders, and sometimes it’ll force him down to his knees again.”</p><p>“I’ve never heard him speak like that. He was angry, and - I just - the whole night was so frightening.” He hadn’t told Triss what had happened in full detail, just that one of the other veterans that lived with Eskel had woken up and behaved dangerously. It'd set Eskel into a tailspin, and now he'd been cut loose. The entire day had passed in a haze and Jaskier had called off his birthday party. He couldn’t face <em> anyone. </em> Triss negotiated her way in with Ben and Jerry’s and a bottle of Smirnoff vodka.</p><p>“What are you going to do?” She knew better than to warn him off. Jaskier didn’t quit. It was one of the things she liked so much about him; if he set his eye on something he worked until he achieved it. His English literature module was his highest scoring by miles. He was one of the most talented musicians she knew. And he’d been dating a man she had told him was unattainable.</p><p>“Fix it. I’m going to fix it. He didn’t want to let me go. He couldn’t even look at me when he said it. It hurt him,” Jaskier sat up and rubbed his eyes dry with his sleeves. “And I think I know how. Just have to face a wolf to do it.”</p><p>“Face a wolf?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he smiled and stirred the remaining melted ice cream around the tub in his hand. “Their patrol was Wolf Team Two Zero, and they had call signs. Eskel was Bear, Lambert was Cat, Vesemir was Papa Wolf, and Geralt was Wolf. He’s the one I told you about.”</p><p>“The one you think Eskel’s in love with?”</p><p>“The one I <em> know </em> Eskel’s in love with. You should have heard all the excuses he made. You know when someone latches onto anything to reinforce an idea they hold as truth? Yeah. He’s so terrified of it, he was just spouting rubbish.”</p><p>“Just… be careful,” she cracked open a can of mixer and topped up their drinks. “Don’t go getting yourself hurt. In any way. Sometimes it’s okay to admit when something’s beyond you.”</p><p>“Not this time, Triss. He’s my Aurora.” Jaskier folded his legs beneath him, and when she looked at him with a raised eyebrow, he grinned. “You should really read some Lord Byron. Educate yo’self.” She thumped him on the arm and they put Netflix on and watched the IT Crowd for the thousandth time.</p><p>***</p><p>Eskel spent most of the day in a daze. Professor Daniels sent him home at lunch - “take some time off, you look awful, son” - and he found himself driving laps up and down the A10 instead of returning to the flat. It was dangerous, because every time he went over the railway bridge, his eyes wandered to the edge. <em> Still needed to look after Geralt. </em> At eight o’clock in the evening, after an entire tank of fuel, he finally stepped across the threshold and chucked his keys onto the lamp table. Geralt stood up from the sofa immediately, and Eskel took a deep, steadying breath.</p><p>“Lambert came back and made some dinner. We put it in the microwave.” Geralt indicated the kitchen. “Where’s Jaskier?”</p><p>“In his halls at university where he belongs,” Eskel murmured and headed towards the microwave. He wasn’t hungry. In fact, he hadn’t been hungry all day, like his stomach and shrivelled up to nothing. “He won’t be coming back.”</p><p>Geralt’s face fell, but Eskel didn’t see it. “Was it his choice?” The idea that he’d managed to frighten off the one light in Eskel’s life was harrowing. He hadn’t seen him so happy… <em> ever.  </em></p><p>“No. Mine.”</p><p>
  <em> That was worse.  </em>
</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>The plate hit the work surface of the kitchen so hard it almost shattered. Some of the lasagne fell off, and Eskel growled as he yanked some kitchen towel to clean it up. “You brought a gun into my home, Geralt. Your <em> daughter </em> has stayed over here three times. What if you’d had a nightmare then?”</p><p>“I wasn’t sleeping when - .”</p><p>“I know,” Eskel breathed a deep, calming sigh. “I’m sorry. But you should’ve known better.” He rooted through a drawer for some cutlery and walked over to the sofa. “Anyway, it was the wake up call I needed. Jaskier deserves better than I can give him. Someone without the baggage. He has his whole life ahead of him, and I’ve already had mine.” </p><p>Geralt sat with Eskel and watched the news, followed by the Bourne Trilogy, but Geralt wasn’t really paying attention. He was too busy watching Eskel and worrying over the way the light had gone out in his eyes.</p><p>***</p><p>Geralt watched Eskel go into free fall for a week, and had no idea what proverbial parachute would slow it. Eskel wasn’t attending therapy - he hadn’t for some time because they’d signed him off as capable of self-management - but perhaps it would help. When he suggested it, he was dismissed with a warm smile and a - “I’m fine, Geralt. Just tired.” - so that didn’t work. He signed off work though, and spent time on the piano, or sitting in his room staring out the window. Didn’t read, didn’t eat much, didn’t do the crossword and stopped running in the mornings. His routine. The things he enjoyed doing. It was all abandoned in favour of whatever was going on his head.</p><p>Then Friday evening Eskel left for a few hours, and when he came back there were bruises down his neck, and he had red-rimmed eyes. The only words he uttered were ‘goodnight’ before he went straight to his room. Geralt followed him on silent feet and peeked through the gap in the door. Eskel pulled his shirt off and Geralt could see scratches and what looked like <em> bite marks</em>. Someone had brutalised him. When Geralt asked him where he’d been the following morning, he just shrugged - “To see a friend.”</p><p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
    <span class="header">Jaskier</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 10:00 AM</span><br/>
<span class="text"> Hi Geralt. It's Jaskier.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> How did you get my number?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Ciri. She gave me hers last time she was over so I could give her dating advice.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Right.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> We have a shared concern that needs to be discussed.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Eskel.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Yes. How is he?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Not good. Am worried. He's not talking, or doing his usual things.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> That confirms it then. Meet me at the Costa in town by the shopping centre for lunch.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Ok.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>Geralt walked into town, because he couldn’t handle how crowded the busses were. He found Jaskier sitting by the window in Costa and bought them both a coffee before he sat down. Jaskier spoke first, “Thank you for meeting me. Did you tell Eskel where - ?”</p><p>“No. He went to work this morning. He needs you back, Jaskier. He wasn’t in his right mind. And I am -,” Geralt paused and rubbed his eyes, “I am deeply sorry for what I did. I was irresponsible. Please don’t hold that over Eskel.”</p><p>Jaskier blinked, and then considered his coffee as he carefully constructed what he wanted - <em> needed - </em> to say next. The apology was a surprise. Geralt didn’t seem like a man that apologised for much; everything he did was carefully thought out and deliberate. That night <em> hadn’t </em> been though. It had been instinctive - borne out of fright - and as he cared for Eskel so deeply, it would break through any pride he might have. Jaskier spoke softly, “Eskel already carries the weight of the world. I think anything else would kill him,” he sighed. “He needs us both. He loves you, Geralt. And you love him. Please don’t give me the brothers-in-arms bullshit. I’ve had that from him already.”</p><p>Geralt gazed down at his coffee. The shop was… loud. It grated on his nerves, but he needed to focus. He turned the mug around carefully in the saucer until the handle was exactly at ninety degrees and took in a deep breath. <em> For Eskel. </em>“I do, yes. I was ready to tell him. That’s why I was in his office that morning.”</p><p>“Oh, shit. And I just burst in and called you by the wrong name.” Jaskier dropped his face into his palm.</p><p>“He wasn’t expecting me. I hadn’t told anyone I was returning. Or about the ceremony.”</p><p>“He said you asked that no one attended.”</p><p>“He does that a lot,” Geralt tilted his head. “He reasons around why people do things, and then he paints their actions in a better light so that others won’t reflect badly on them. I was -,” he had managed to figure Eskel out - the way he behaved and the reasons why - after eighteen-ish years of careful observation and documentation, but his own actions were sometimes a puzzle to him, “angry, and betrayed. I hate the hypocrisy of it all, and I know it shows on my face, so I didn’t want my family to see it.”</p><p>Jaskier smiled. “You hate hypocrisy generally, don’t you?”</p><p>“Yes. I have always struggled to deal with people who hide their intentions behind flowery words, or false modesty, or any socially acceptable form of deceit,” he sipped his coffee. “I prefer honesty.”</p><p>“Then you are the biggest hypocrite of them all.”</p><p>An eyebrow raise.</p><p>Jaskier smirked. “You’ve been lying to yourself about Eskel for how many years? Let me guess. He couldn’t possibly love you - what excuse did you make?”</p><p>Geralt shifted in his seat, brow creased, eyes stern. Jaskier reasoned he must have been an extremely intimidating commanding officer; he felt sorry for the coffee cup. “I’m not worthy of his affection. I’ve always been relieved that he has kept me as a friend. I never wanted to demand anything more.”</p><p>“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier slumped back briefly. “You are - do you have <em> any </em> idea how much he pines for you? I could power the entire national grid on the charge from the looks you two give each other alone. Like - granted, he gives me the same looks, and I’m relieved - but <em> Jesus Christ</em>, Geralt. Do you use those eyes for anything other than glaring disapprovingly at things?”</p><p>That earned a small smile and Geralt’s brow smoothed out. “I couldn’t compete with you in terms of… looks.” </p><p>Now it was Jaskier’s turn to raise his eyebrow. Well, both. So high they almost disappeared into his hair, never to return. “Are you serious? You look like a model from the front cover of Men’s Health. You are literally - I nearly started drooling on the floor when you opened the front door in your pants.”</p><p>“I thought you were staring at the scars in disgust.” Geralt murmured, and then blinked when one of Jaskier’s hands dropped to his. The initial discomfort evaporated when he was surprised by the juxtaposition of callused fingertips and soft palms. </p><p>“No. I was marvelling in awe. You - we - bloody hell,” he squeezed the hand in his grip and then let go, because Geralt was still staring at it. This was a long term project. Feeling like they were unlovable was clearly a symptom they all shared. Lambert included. “How would you feel if we <em> both </em> loved Eskel?”</p><p>“At the same time.” A statement to confirm his understanding.</p><p>“Yes. We can - start again. Dates, courting… I find you very attractive. As much as him, in fact. And you just commented on my ‘looks’, so I know you’ve considered them.” Jaskier propped his elbows on the table, chin on his fingers, head tilted to the side. Yes, he could <em> definitely </em> see himself with this one on his other arm. Striking blue eyes, uniquely beautiful white hair, air of brooding menace. Being frank - <em> honest - </em> seemed to be working well with Geralt, so Jaskier was going full steam ahead.</p><p>“Are you asking me out on a date, Pankratz?”</p><p>“Yes. You and Eskel. I would like to date you both. At the same time.”</p><p>“We need to make sure Eskel is alright with this. I won’t do anything more to upset him. He may not - want - me. Just you. I want him to be happy. Like he was.”</p><p>“I’m getting dizzy from these circles we’re spinning in,” Jaskier huffed. “He wants you. Trust me. If there is one thing on this planet that I am remotely good at, it’s knowing when someone wants someone else. We’ll ask him out on a date. Together.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt leaned back, with that adorable head tilt that made him look <em> exactly </em> like his callsign. “We should take him for Greek food. There’s a good restaurant not far from here. That was my original plan when I came home. He says he misses his mother’s cooking sometimes.” Even if Eskel decided he didn't want to pursue anything. Just took Jaskier back. For Geralt, that would be a victory. Eskel happy again was all he needed.</p><p>Jaskier grinned. “I think we’re going to be a great team.” Another hum of acknowledgement, and Geralt returned to his coffee.</p><p>***</p><p>Letho had left the university to find a lunch that didn’t consist of leftover pasta and he stumbled upon something very satisfying indeed. A wolf and a lark sitting in a coffee shop. <em> Holding hands. </em> He slumped on the bench opposite and pulled out his phone to snap a picture, and then considered it carefully on his phone screen. His evening with Eskel had been <em> very </em> enjoyable, even if the morose git had mostly just grit his teeth and turned his face away. Still yearning after his love. Easy way to fix that. Destroy the love. </p><p>He sent Eskel the picture.</p><p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
    <span class="header">Eskel</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 1:45 PM</span><br/>
<span class="greply"> Your little songbird moves on quickly. Seems to have a thing for soldiers. Looking very cozy.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>Eskel saw it while marking in his office and, with the logical parts of his mind swamped in anxiety and the weight of everything dragging him under, it broke him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter titled after "Weight of the World" by Citizen Soldier.</p><p>We're saving Eskel now.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. If I Had You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was seven o’clock in the evening. Geralt had stayed out in town plotting with Jaskier, and then attended his therapy session with the clinic. He mentioned the nightmare and the violent response, but not the gun. They’d given him a new prescription and his clinician was going to call him each morning for the next two weeks to check-in on how it was going. They asked whether he had anyone at home to look after him (and prevent him from harming himself); he gave them Eskel’s contact information. </p><p>Geralt closed the flat door behind him and instantly something felt wrong. He was so aware of his surroundings - the placement of objects, the shape of the room, the location of furniture - that when things changed, or changed out of <em> time, </em> he knew. Eskel’s phone was on the coffee table, along with his wallet, but his <em> keys </em> were not on the lamp table. Geralt checked his bedroom and found it empty. This was wrong. He sat down on the sofa and clicked the television on, sound muted, but he couldn’t shake the disturbance and his eyes kept dropping down to the mobile phone in front of him. <em> Couldn’t stand it. Sorry, Eskel. </em></p><p>He snatched it up, and the facial recognition came up empty - obviously - so he clicked onto the keypad for the manual bypass. <em> Code. </em> What would the code be? He glanced around the flat. Three attempts. Six numbers. The first time he tried Ciri’s birthday. <em> Not that. </em> Then he tried the date of their last jump. <em> Not that. </em>Fuck. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Something that meant a lot to Eskel. Could it be a poetic reference? His mother’s birthday? No.</p><p>He remembered when mobile phones first became a thing, and Eskel lamented having to press the keys multiple times to get to letters. His fingers were so thick that he struggled with his little Nokia 3310 and in the end had… started sending messages as numbers. Geralt sat up and stared down at the coffee table. Eskel. Sentimental, loving, loyal and - if Jaskier was to be believed - pining. His last chance. 4-3-7-2-5-8. <em> Geralt. </em> The phone unlocked.</p><p>“Fuck.”</p><p>Geralt felt his chest constrict, but his shock was short lived when he remembered <em> why </em> he had decided to invade Eskel’s privacy. Needed to know why he’d left all of his belongings behind but taken his car. He flicked quickly through the most recent phone calls, messages and then opened WhatsApp. One eyebrow raised when he quickly cast a glance to the chat with Jaskier - Eskel had sent a very <em> pleasant </em> image, and - hmm. Geralt tilted his head. Something to look forward to. Maybe put his mouth on. <em> A lot. </em>He shook his head and tabbed out. Wasn’t here to snoop on that relationship. Then he saw Letho’s list of messages over the last two weeks.</p><p>He narrowed in on Friday.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Letho</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Friday</b> 11:52 AM</span><br/>
<span class="greply"> Free tonight?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Need looking after, little bear?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> I'll bring the beer.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Friday</b> 10:01 PM</span><br/>
<span class="text"> Really enjoyed tonight, little bear. Hope you're not too sore.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="greply"> Nothing I can't handle.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"> Aww, I’ll have to bite harder next time. Can’t have you forgetting our time together so easily.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>Geralt’s fist shook with the pressure of his grip, and the phone <em> creaked </em> . Was it jealousy? No. Eskel had a right to pursue who he wished. He didn’t <em> belong </em> to Geralt. It was the idea that someone should <em> mark </em> him - <em> hurt him - </em> when he was most vulnerable. The bruises, the scratches, the <em> bites. </em>They’d been extensive. Geralt scrolled down further and saw the picture and the text next.</p><p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Letho</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 1:45 PM</span><br/>
<span class="text">Your little songbird moves on quickly. Seems to have a thing for soldiers. Looking very cozy</span><br/>
</p><p>Geralt seethed. <em> You fucking prick.  </em></p><p>There was no reply. Eskel had seen it. Two blue ticks. But there was no further activity on any of his apps. Geralt scrolled back through Letho’s messages - earlier, much earlier - and saw a pattern of abuse going back months. <em> Years </em>. There was a pause while he’d been courting Jaskier, but the messages were all the same. Are you free? Do you need looking after? With Letho gloating at the end of the following evening. Geralt went into Eskel’s phone book and found Lambert’s number. The phone rang…</p><p>Lambert answered. “Y’alright, Care Bear?”</p><p>“It’s Geralt.”</p><p>“Oh, fuck, my phone must be screwing up again…”</p><p>“No. I’m on Eskel’s phone. He’s missing. Left all his stuff at the flat apart from his car.”</p><p>There was silence on the other end of the phone… and then Geralt listened harder; Lambert was talking to someone. He returned moments later, “There’s an app on his phone called BlueLink. It tracks his car in case it’s stolen. It’ll give you the location. We’ll pick Jaskier up, and then we’ll come and grab you.” Lambert had noticed Eskel’s spiral, had tried to get him to talk - fed him, made him lunches, played a few of his favourite songs on the guitar, tried to lure him down with a M*A*S*H marathon - but nothing worked.</p><p><em> BlueLink. </em> Geralt hung up and looked back at the phone. Still plenty of battery. He found the app quickly and opened it using Eskel’s Mobile Data. By the time a BMW screeched up outside the flat, Geralt had a location and fell into the passenger seat next to Aiden. “He’s on Hills Road. Just above the Travel Lodge.”</p><p>“Shit.” Lambert slumped back and Aiden gassed it out of the industrial estate. Geralt didn’t know Cambridge that well, and looked over his shoulder in question. “There’s a bridge directly over the railway. Aiden - .”</p><p>“Don’t worry. On it. Getting out of a speeding ticket is child’s play.” He sped through several flashing speed cameras and undertook traffic at an alarming rate. Lambert realised that perhaps there was more to Aiden than the handsome, bookish lawyer with a kinky streak, because he put SAS driving instructors to shame. They spotted Eskel’s Audi parked up outside Savills, and Aiden mounted the curb to pull up behind it. The driver’s door was still open, and when Lambert ducked inside he found the keys still turned in the ignition. <em> Huh, thank you for your honesty, people of Cambridge.  </em></p><p>It became quickly apparent <em> why </em> no one had bothered to take a joy ride though, because several more cars had stopped on the bridge and people had their mobile phones to their ears. All looking in a single direction. Eskel sat on the wall, his legs dangling over the railway line. He was waiting for the 8.32pm train. Jaskier sprinted out in front of a van, which swerved and barely missed him, and Geralt followed at a sprint. “Wait, wait - ,” he grabbed Jaskier by the shoulder as they drew close, “slow, gentle. He’s not - he’s not thinking straight. He could jump down now, and then just step out when a train comes.”</p><p>Jaskier nodded, tears streaming silently down his face, and Geralt stepped in front of him. He drew a deep, shuddering breath and started forwards slowly. When he was well within hearing range, “Eskel. We need to talk. Just five minutes of your time.”</p><p>“You’ve had eighteen years of my time, Geralt.” Eskel murmured. He didn’t look up from the railway.</p><p>“And I wasted it, I know,” he spoke softly, hands planting on the wall. He was about four metres away still. Eskel was right on the edge; he’d be able to jump down before Geralt could clear the distance. “The message you saw doesn’t tell the whole story.”</p><p>“It tells me enough. I’m not necessary anymore. Obsolete.”</p><p>“Not necessary? What - ?”</p><p>“I was in this same position five years ago. And I was convinced that I was still needed, but the feeling of worthlessness never went away. It’s always there. And every time I try to do the right thing, it hurts more. Tried to bury it, but it just festered. This is my escape.”</p><p>“But you’re worth everything to me, to both of us, that’s -,” he paused and looked behind him, because Jaskier had inched forward to stand at his shoulder, “we met to discuss you. That we - we both love you. I should’ve told you eighteen years ago, but I thought you’d chosen someone else. I’m sorry.”</p><p>Eskel looked up at the sky and then tilted his head towards them. Geralt had never seen that look. The barren hopelessness. Eskel’s face was always so full of colour and life; he smiled the biggest, laughed the loudest. Perhaps that was it then. He did those things because he thought he had to hide the misery beneath. Had to work extra hard to convince people he was fine. Eskel spoke, and his voice broke, “Don’t lie to me. Please.”</p><p>“It’s not a lie. It’s the truth. I love you. That’s why I put myself between you and the militants, why I came back to you and not anyone else, why I couldn’t make it work with Yen. I needed to be with you. I just - I was too - I thought I was too late.”</p><p>Eskel made an agonised, choking noise and his chin tilted down to his chest for a moment as he regained himself. Then he looked at Jaskier, “Is it true?” Because he’d looked at Geralt for eighteen years and knew he must be blind to it. Had convinced himself nothing was there because he couldn’t handle the rejection. Couldn’t throw away a friendship so important to him.</p><p>“It’s true, Eskel,” Jaskier’s voice sounded so small in the shadow of what was happening, he swallowed and tried to find his strength. “Both of us. We can’t live without you. We - we agreed that, perhaps, if you wanted to, we could all go on a date together and see how it goes. I was telling Geralt he wasn’t ugly in the picture, because that’s one of the reasons he thinks he doesn’t have a chance with you and - .” Geralt rested a calming hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, because he was speaking faster with every syllable, and he fell silent.</p><p>The sound of sirens had been distant for the majority of the conversation, but now they drew <em> very </em> close indeed. Aiden stayed well back, but called through to the Cambridge Train Station to warn them of a potential jumper. All the trains had been stopped at red lights until the issue was resolved. Lambert joined now that he’d secured the car and was sure Eskel wouldn’t be overwhelmed. He spoke just as quietly, “Don’t leave us, Care Bear. I owe you everything. Need to give me a chance to repay you.” </p><p>Eskel considered the tracks for a long time. He could see the police cordoning off the road. <em> Fuck. </em> The train should’ve been here by now. <em> Must be a sign. </em>He heaved a sigh, “What if I don’t live up to what you want me to be? What if I let you down again?”</p><p>“We just want you, Eskel. We love the scars and everything that comes with them. Just like you love us.” Geralt could feel the pressure in his chest building, but stayed on high alert to clear the distance should he need to.</p><p>“You’re our Aurora,” Jaskier whispered, barely audible. “Exactly as you are.”</p><p>Eskel heard him and finally there was the ghost of a smile. “So, you were listening to me.”</p><p>“Every word.” Jaskier could see the change, but still jerked forward when Eskel moved. He returned a foot to the pavement. The paramedics had arrived, but Aiden had herded all the blue lights back with an impressive authority, his arms spread wide, voice barking out across the noise. </p><p>Eskel returned his other foot and slipped down from the wall. “They’ll section me for this.”</p><p>“Yes. Just twenty-eight days. Then you’ll be back with us,” Geralt had told one lie to Eskel for the last eighteen years. He would never lie to him again. “I’ll book the Olive Grove.”</p><p>“Greek,” Eskel smiled again. </p><p>“When we were in Helmand, you said you’d give your right bollock for a Kofte, so…” Geralt rubbed the back of his head. That had been five years ago. He still remembered. Memories like that had pulled him through the desert when it would’ve been much easier to die.</p><p>“Yeah. To be fair, we’d eaten beans for three weeks straight.” Eskel nodded, his amusement more palpable, but it faded when the police and the paramedics began to approach. “You’ll visit me?”</p><p>“Yes.” Jaskier now, and Lambert nodded in agreement. “As much as we can.”</p><p>The paramedics allowed the resulting pile of bodies to swamp Eskel. Jaskier pressed into his chest, with Lambert and Geralt wrapped around the outside. They held him and Jaskier sobbed with gratitude that he was still standing there. It was so difficult to let him go. Impossible, almost, but he kissed those soft, scarred lips and left him to be escorted away with Geralt at his side. He wouldn’t be alone while they processed the paperwork for his assessment.</p><p>Because sometimes love isn't quite enough. Sometimes people need help to piece themselves back together and their loved ones just need to hold their hand through it. </p><p>***</p><p>Aiden stayed at the flat with them for several days. His reasoning was blunt; you’re all emotional wrecks. So, while they settled, he kept everything running. Eskel was kept at Fulbourn Hospital for his care, and Aiden ensured visitation rights were open to <em> all </em> of them, citing Eskel’s family network as vital to his recovery. He ordered food to be delivered to the flat and he pushed Jaskier’s books into his lap for his finals. “Eskel will kill you if you fail your second year on his behalf.” Eskel’s PhD was paused on medical grounds. His position was secure. He was just too bloody good at what he did.</p><p>Geralt only had one thing on his mind, and one afternoon he left the flat and walked into town to deal with it. He entered the engineering building and inquired at the front desk for the location of the correct laboratory. When he entered, he cast a quick glance around the room and located Letho. On his own. Geralt locked the door behind him.</p><p>His footsteps weren’t quiet, or stealthy; he strode across the space with purpose. Letho looked up, “Well, if it isn’t the esteemed White Wo--.” He didn’t get to finish. Geralt hit him so hard in the face his head cracked back against the wall behind him. Dazed, he flailed on the floor, only to buckle over onto his side when a boot drove into his ribs.</p><p>“I should’ve done this years ago.” Geralt growled, his voice even, but dangerous. By the time he’d finished, Letho was spitting blood onto the floor; a boot to the face, several more to his abdomen and a stamp on an arm that extended for a wrench. Geralt walked by to turn on a circular saw. As it whirred at its highest speed, he leaned down and yanked Letho from the floor. The Viper struggled, but he had several broken ribs, a fractured forearm and a concussion, so eventually his face was mere inches from the saw. Geralt’s voice barely lifted above a whisper, but the promise was chilling enough, “If you <em> ever </em> contact him again, if you ever <em> look </em> at him again. I will kill you. Do you understand?” </p><p>Letho spat blood. “Y-you wouldn’t… too much to lose. Go to prison… for life.”</p><p>Geralt leaned in close, teeth bared. “I went to hell for him. What makes you think I’m worried about prison?” He held Letho there to prove his point, watching him try to angle his face away from the saw, before he threw him onto the floor. Letho wouldn’t tell anyone. That would mean admitting he’d just been beaten up by a man two-thirds his size. That would mean opening him up to a potential investigation for abuse. Geralt had all the texts. He even had a few photos Letho had taken and sent to Eskel to <em> remind </em> him of their time together. It would be enough for him to lose everything.</p><p>Letho wouldn’t be contacting Eskel again.</p><p>***</p><p>Twenty-eight days.</p><p>It was a month. But a month was an eternity when the one you loved was in hospital. </p><p>Jaskier managed to achieve a moderate score in his finals. Enough for a 2.1, he was certain. Father-dearest would be so very disappointed. He didn’t care. In between studying, he began work on Eskel’s final essay. He hadn’t thought of a title yet, but he knew what the focus would be. Heroes. Notably the ones that sacrificed everything and then were cast aside by those they had fought to defend. He wanted to explore the systemic failings of the UK government and NATO in caring for their veterans. It was a big project, but he was ready for it.</p><p>The time for Eskel’s return home finally arrived. His assessment went well and the hospital decided not to renew the section. Geralt took the Audi to pick Eskel up, Jaskier stayed behind to do a bit of spring cleaning and lay the table. Lambert knew the <em> exact </em> dish to cook. Spaghetti - motha-fuckin’ - bolognese.</p><p>“Is that its official name?” Aiden sipped his J2O as he watched Lambert dart around the kitchen. It had been cooking for four hours, and he was certain his stomach was beginning to digest itself in anticipation. </p><p>“Yes. Can I change the playlist yet?” Lambert flicked salt into the pasta water.</p><p>“Not yet. I like this album.” <em> Victorious </em> by Skillet. One of Aiden’s favourites.</p><p>“I swear if I have to listen to anymore of your angsty bullshit, my therapist is gonna’ have to up my meds’. Think I’ve forgotten what happiness feels like. I can see the life leaking out of m--.”</p><p>“You’re such a drama queen, fine, change the music - ah, here they are!” </p><p>Eskel and Geralt stepped through the door and Jaskier rushed across the room into Eskel’s arms. “Welcome home.” He could feel the happy rumble as Eskel encircled him and buried his face in his hair. Geralt walked by with Eskel’s duffel bag over his shoulder and took it up to his room.</p><p>“It’s good to be home,” Eskel smiled and headed over to the kitchen to pull Lambert into an one-armed embrace while he was stirring the pasta. “Y’alright, kitten.”</p><p>“Oh my --,” Lambert glowered at Aiden, who simply toasted him with his J2O bottle. “Right, that’s it. Hey Google, play ‘If I Had You’ by Adam Lambert.”</p><p>“Oh no, Lambert… no, come on.” Aiden looked pained.</p><p>“You asked for this.” As the bass kicked in, Lambert bopped around, and immediately chimed in with the lyrics. “<em>So I got my boots on, got the right amount of leather, and I'm doing me up with a black color liner, and I'm working my strut but I know it don't matter, all we need in this world is some love. There's a thin line between the dark side and the light side baby tonight, it's a struggle, gotta' rumble, tryin' to find i</em><em>t,</em>” he span on the spot with a fine head flick and then hopped up onto the counter in two bounds, wooden spoon used as a microphone as he pointed down at Aiden with a little hip shimmy, “<em>But if I had you, that would be the only thing I'd ever need. Yeah if I had you, then money, fame and fortune never could compete. If I had you, life would be a party, it'd be ecstasy, yeah if I had you, you y-y-y-y-y-you, y-y-y-y-y-you, y-y-y-y-you! </em>”</p><p>“I don’t know whether to be appalled or highly aroused.” Aiden sounded quite breathless, because Lambert had never sung to him before. I mean, <em>Adam</em> Lambert was awful, but <em> his </em> Lambert was pitch perfect; his hips rolling, head flicking as he extended his hand out at the side during the chorus for emphasis. <em>Well,</em> Aiden had to stay seated for at least ten minutes now.</p><p>“Appalled, definitely appalled,” Eskel, who had been laughing with Jaskier, now stepped up to the counter. “Get the fuck off the counters, La--.” He held his arms out just in time to catch Lambert, who hopped off without warning, fully expecting to be caught.</p><p>“Welcome back, Care Bear.” A bright, toothy grin, wooden spoon clutched to his chest; Eskel could only shake his head in mock disapproval, but <em>couldn’t</em> contain the smile. He still had a way to go, but it was good to be back with his family.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter titled after "If I Had You" by Adam Lambert.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Moving Forward</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eskel slept a lot for the first week or so. Geralt and Jaskier took it in turns to sit with him on the sofa, and whenever he startled awake they were there to soothe him back to restfulness; holding his hand, petting his hair. Just <em> there</em>. It was as if a wound he’d been carefully concealing had been ripped open again, and Eskel felt exhausted; he could finally rest properly now that everyone <em> knew </em> about it, but that didn’t mean he felt any less vulnerable. </p><p>When Eskel wasn’t sleeping, he began picking up the things he loved to do again; Jaskier bought him a book of crosswords and Geralt popped back to the university to pick up some of his favourite books. Lambert took him running in the morning, eventually joined by Geralt too who, after spending several months now mainly snacking on bad food and watching wildlife documentaries, commented quietly that his waistline was feeling a bit fuller than it had been. It was a positive sign.</p><p>“They’re all looking good, Triss,” Jaskier smiled across coffee one morning. “Geralt is sleeping properly, and Eskel’s smiling more and more. I think Lambert is just drunk on love.”</p><p>“Trust you to adopt an entire pack of veterans,” she rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “What are your plans for the summer?”</p><p>“I’m staying here.”</p><p>“Your mum okay with that?”</p><p>“She was a bit upset, but she understood. I promised to pop back home to visit, and she’s asked whether I can bring Eskel.” He grinned.</p><p>“Oh-ho-ho, I bet Alfred’s gonna’ <em> love </em> that.” She stirred her iced coffee and lounged back into the sun. It was hot; they’d found a picnic bench in the shade in the courtyard and she was covered in about four inches of sun cream, but that didn’t mean her pale, freckled face couldn’t enjoy some Vit’ D. Ginger rights.</p><p>“Hmm, especially when I bring both of them.”</p><p>“<em>Both </em> of them?” She looked back suddenly.</p><p>“Yeah,” Jaskier looked far too pleased with myself. “Geralt has agreed to date me too. The first one’s tonight at the Olive Grove.”</p><p>“<em>Jaskier</em>, you <em> dog. </em> I can’t believe - ,” her mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe you’ve bagged yourself <em> two </em> gorgeous men, and I can’t seem to find a single girl that <em> isn’t </em> crazy as all hell.”</p><p>“Well, you see, there’s your problem.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“All bitches be crazy.”</p><p>She kicked him <em> really </em> hard as he laughed, and they moved onto discussions about her planned trip to South America to do some school and sanitation building. Peru was her first stop. Seriously, these world-saving types never took a day off, did they?</p><p>***</p><p>Jaskier hopped into the back of the Audi and shuffled forward until he could lean forward over the centre console. It was only a short drive through town, but Eskel, the gentleman that he was, wanted to save his beau from the walk. “You’re both looking very ravishing.” Both in smart jeans and shoes; Eskel had gone for his trademark red, and Geralt for a simple black shirt that emphasised <em> everything </em> good about his torso. The subtle scent of cologne was <em> very </em> appetising and Jaskier mused whether it was possible to skip the meal and just head straight back for the flat so he could start <em> exploring.  </em></p><p>“Mm. Trying to get Geralt to choose a black shirt to wear was agony.” Eskel grinned in the rearview mirror before clicking the indicator on and glancing over his shoulder. Geralt raised an eyebrow with a sideways glance, but said nothing. The cut was important. Not his fault that clothing manufacturers didn’t cater for broad shoulders. It was a Friday night and Cambridge was busy, but Eskel whipped out his parking permit and they found a free spot opposite the restaurant. </p><p>Jaskier flopped down next to Geralt, because they both wanted to sit opposite and admire Eskel, who beckoned a waiter over, “Mas fernete enan katalogo, parakolo?” He glanced back to his dates, and Jaskier was watching him with an open mouth. “What?”</p><p>“Greek wasn’t listed on the punting trip.”</p><p>“I consider it a native language rather than one learned later. Didn’t occur to me.” Eskel grinned sheepishly, and Geralt smirked down at his menu when it arrived. </p><p>“I think I’ve just discovered why sapiosexuals exist,” Jaskier glanced across the food. “I vote we let the professional order.” </p><p>“Agreed.” Geralt nodded, his only desire a cold beer, because the air conditioning barely took the edge off.</p><p>“Well then, let’s see…” Eskel cast his eye over the menu and then beckoned the waiter back over, “Na parageloome?” He ordered things that Jaskier only vaguely recognised, and held a brief discussion with the waiter over some recommendations, before finally passing the menus back. “Hope you’re hungry.”</p><p>“In more ways than one.” Geralt murmured, and both Jaskier and Eskel cast him astounded looks; he just sipped innocently at his beer.</p><p>“So, do you have any surprise skills that I should know about?” Jaskier swivelled in his seat to look at their white-haired addition with an appraising eye.</p><p>“Hm,” Geralt considered the table, straightening his cutlery on the napkin. “I can ride a horse.” </p><p>“He was going to join the Household Cavalry before he decided on the SAS.” Eskel offered.</p><p>“Wait, with the Queen, and the big fluffy hats? Red uniform?” Jaskier’s eyes widened in delight.</p><p>“Not quite. Golden hats.” Geralt studied Jaskier from the corner of his eye. “You’re genuinely interested, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Yes. You’re a walking enigma. I think the most I’ve ever heard you talk was - ,” he trailed off. “You don’t talk very much, which is all fine, but I’d like to know more. So, why the SAS?”</p><p>“I don’t like people. With the SAS, there’s only ever four of you in the wilderness. I was relieved when I was placed with Eskel, Varin and Vesemir. Lambert was a bit of a blip, but he became tolerable after a while.” Geralt watched the amusement brighten Eskel’s eyes and tilted his head to the side, before looking back to Jaskier who looked equally as - <em> fuck - </em>it was hot in here, wasn’t it? He drank another big mouthful of beer and leaned forward as the first of the food arrived. “Talk us through it, Eskel.” Geralt indicated some of the wrapped parcels.</p><p>“This is Spanakopita, which is spinach in pastry; this is dolmades; vine leaves stuffed with rice and herbs…” Eskel explained each of the dishes that arrived, even beyond the <em> first </em> course. By the time the fifth round came out, Jaskier exchanged a glance of mutual suffering with Geralt. Eskel had ordered <em> a lot; </em>his concept of adequate food was measured up against his own appetite, and both Jaskier and Geralt were soon feeling rather bloated, while Eskel was still merrily filling up his plate. It wasn’t a part of his heritage he got to explore much, so he was going to damn well enjoy it. Conversation eventually drifted to war stories, but thankfully not the traumatic kind; there were plenty of antics to discuss that brought fond memories to the surface.</p><p>“We were in the Congo and he went to sort out his business and sat in this semi-toxic plant,” Geralt informed Jaskier after yet another plate of grilled meat arrived. “The first time I saw his ass was putting cream on it for him.”</p><p>“Hang on, hang on. Can we talk about the time you went swimming in a <em> beautiful </em> waterfall and came out with leeches stuck <em> everywhere? </em> Vesemir <em> warned </em> you, but Wolf knows best.” Eskel waved his hand in front of him to indicate Geralt’s torso. “I’ve never heard someone whine so much about a few bugs.”</p><p>“Bugs with teeth, Eskel. That drink blood.” Geralt looked serious for a moment and then sat back with a snort of laughter.  It was good to see them grinning and laughing, and Jaskier kept slipping sly glances across to Geralt and that beautifully soft expression he had. Now that he had permission to gaze at Eskel openly, without the need to hide it, he drank his fill. It only got more open as the units of alcohol in his system increased, so Jaskier kept the waiter occupied by ordering top ups whenever that bottle got low.</p><p>“So, real talk,” Jaskier picked over an odd lamb dish wrapped in pastry. “When did you fall in love? Geralt, we’ll start with you, since you’re inebriated enough to not be bashful.”</p><p>“Not inebriated,” he countered, realised that word was harder to say than it really should be, and slid the bottle away from him. Now that was a question, wasn’t it? Pinpointing the moment your heart left your chest to join someone else’s. “He read a poem to me. The Happy Warrior.”</p><p>“You hate that poem.” Eskel raised an eyebrow.</p><p>“It was the way you explained it. Took the time to read it to me rather than telling me to fuck off, and - ,” Geralt paused. A lot of words were spilling out of his mouth right now. “- and I thought - think - you’re handsome. ‘Cause - the smile. Oh, and then he went and saved my life.”</p><p>“He saved your life?” Jaskier dropped the pitta bread he was trying to convince himself he could actually fit in his stomach.</p><p>“Mmhm. We were doing a standard jump as part of our training from twenty thousand feet, and my parachute was malfunctioning. So, obviously, Eskel nearly killed himself rescuing me. No one had ever - given a shit about me, and there was this - fuckin’ handsome asshole, with his poetry, and his big smile, and his ability to understand my head when everyone else just - didn’t,” Geralt sighed, as if this amount of exposition was exhausting. It was. “Take the beer away now, please.”</p><p>“No, no. More beer.” Eskel pushed the bottle back towards him. “I’ve waited a long time for this, Geralt.”</p><p>“No - wait - <em> you </em> - your turn.” Geralt looked briefly affronted, but grabbed the beer back anyway.</p><p>“First spark of interest came watching you do the hill walk; athletic, competent. Crush was the poem for me too, and it just got stronger the longer we were around each other. I couldn’t get over how profoundly you thought about things, and how gentle you were. The fact that you’re devastatingly good looking didn’t go amiss.”</p><p>Jaskier shook his head. “That is painfully romantic. So, you could’ve had each other all this time.”</p><p>Geralt huffed and gave Jaskier a disapproving look, even if it was extremely hazy. “We’ve had each other. Eskel’s my best friend. Love him. Now, he’s going to be more -,” he caught himself, and that was <em> definitely </em> a bashful glance. “- maybe. Hopefully.” </p><p>Eskel reached across and brushed the back of Geralt’s hand with his fingers, but said nothing more as they finished off the rest of the food. Correction; <em> Eskel </em> finished off the rest of the food. Jaskier and Geralt slumped in their chairs ready to burst at the seams. “I think I’m going to explode. I hope you two aren’t hoping for anything athletic tonight.” Jaskier rubbed his face.</p><p>Geralt huffed a laugh. “You think you’re getting into my pants on the first date?”</p><p>“Maybe not me. I can wait until the third if you’re feeling precious, but Eskel.” Jaskier clicked his tongue, and grinned at the flush that rose up Eskel’s neck; as designated driver, he hadn’t been drinking, so lacked the lowered inhibitions Geralt and Jaskier were currently revelling in. Geralt only hummed, blue eyes bright.</p><p>“I think you’re both too drunk to get it up anyway. Right, let’s pay and get out of here. I don’t fancy being in Cambridge when all the students start piling out after pre-drinks.” All three of them simultaneously reached to grab their wallets and then to protest the others. Eskel sighed, “I think I should as - .”</p><p>“Hm. No, technically, we brought <em> you </em> out.” Jaskier reached to take Eskel’s card away from him, but it was whipped out of reach. In the end, Geralt rose to his feet and paid at the bar before either of them could protest, but apparently struggled to remember his pin number for a bit.</p><p>It was a stuffy summer’s evening, so Jaskier was slightly surprised when Geralt scooped him to his side, one large arm draped around his shoulders. They were walking behind Eskel, who’d already crossed the road to unlock the car. “This was a good idea.”</p><p>“This was <em> your </em> idea.” Jaskier chuckled and leaned his head to the shoulder nearest.</p><p>“It was,” Geralt sounded partly surprised, partly proud. “Can I ask your permission for something - ?”</p><p>“My permission?”</p><p>“I want to kiss him tonight. Is that alright?”</p><p>Jaskier laughed. “Geralt, you don’t have to ask <em> my </em> permission. I mean, I guess his consent should be requested, but I don’t foresee him complaining. This is about the <em> three </em> of us. You’re not the lesser party.” A gentle hand rubbed Geralt’s back, and he leaned up to place a chaste kiss on his jaw; he didn’t want to push his luck just yet, even if he’d quite happily get lost in Geralt’s mouth right this second. Preferably with Eskel on hand - <em> or in hand </em>. “See? Now get in the car, you drunk idiot.” They piled into the car and Eskel whacked the air conditioning on full blast for the drive back. </p><p>When they arrived back at the flat, Lambert glanced up from the ironing board in front of him. “Welcome back, lovebirds. Should I be finding my ear plugs?” The iron hissed steam as he swept it over the white shirt.</p><p>“Don’t be basic,” Eskel murmured as he pulled pint glasses from the cupboards; Jaskier rooted through the drawers in search of aspirin. “Going somewhere important?”</p><p>“Job interview tomorrow morning.” Lambert replied, lightly. </p><p>Eskel blinked. “A job int- - ? Where? With whom?”</p><p>“The mechanic down the road. I dropped my CV off and they rang me up within an hour asking me to come in. I figured that if I can fix a tank in the middle of the Afghan desert, then I’m more than capable of repairing Karen’s Vauxhall Corsa when the engine light comes on.”  </p><p>“Lambert, that’s - I’m - ,” Eskel looked like he was on the verge of tears, and Lambert glanced up in concern. “I’m glad. That - yeah, nice one. Knock ‘em dead.”</p><p>“Mm. Hopefully that’ll be part of my skillset I won’t need.” Lambert clicked off the iron once he’d run a palm over the material of the shirt. “Geralt drunk?”</p><p>“No.” A voice called from somewhere on the sofa. Eskel and Lambert exchanged a smirk, and Lambert bid them goodnight with a flick of his hand, shirt slung over his shoulder. Once the bedroom door had closed, Eskel headed over to Geralt and placed a pint glass down on the coffee table.</p><p>“You need to drink this, or your hangover is going to be truly staggering,” he began to walk away, but Geralt grabbed his wrist and pulled him down onto the sofa, one arm wrapped around his waist to pull him close. “Can I help you?”</p><p>“Depends.” Geralt took Eskel by the jaw and tilted his head up, thumb smoothing across his lower lip, before his fingers combed back through scruffy black hair. He <em> liked </em> the chaos of Eskel’s hair; it had always been neatly cut in the army, but now it was always messy and all over the place. Couldn’t wait to grip it when they were wrapped around each other. Geralt could already feel Eskel melting under the touch, dark pupils swallowing soft hazel eyes, which was encouraging. He leaned in to press his face to the side of Eskel’s neck, fingers still stroking through his hair; the scent of his cologne mixed with the clean sweat of a warm evening was intoxicating. “Can I kiss you?” </p><p>“I would be absolutely fucking devastated if you didn’t.” Eskel growled, because having Geralt pressed this close was setting every inch of his skin on fire. He could see Jaskier perched on one of the stools by the kitchen counter, sipping at a bottle of juice in readiness for the show. <em> Lecherous little-- </em> oh, <em> fuck. </em>Geralt pressed their mouths together and Eskel nearly dissolved into the sofa. The brush of Geralt’s tongue, the nip of his teeth and the softness of his lips dazed Eskel instantly into submission; he let out a soft sigh and allowed Geralt to push him down onto his back, one foot still planted on the floor as Geralt knelt between his legs. </p><p>A strong hand tilted his face away so that Geralt could run tender kisses down the side of his neck from ear to collarbone. He murmured softly, “I love you, Eskel. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to say it.” He shuffled down until his head could rest on Eskel’s chest, hands smoothing up his sides and along his arms, “Gonna’ say it every day forever.” Slurred through sleepiness as he closed his eyes. </p><p>Jaskier appeared above Eskel’s face with a wry smirk. “He’s fallen asleep, hasn’t he?”</p><p>“Yes, and he’s crushing the erection he’s given me.” Eskel grinned into the kiss that Jaskier stooped to give him, before beginning to writhe free. Geralt wasn’t a <em> small </em> man, so it took a fair amount of negotiation before Eskel could slip out from under him. “I really hope he’s still able to do that in the morning.”</p><p>“Oh, I think he will.” Jaskier looped his arm around Eskel’s waist and they retired to bed, leaving Geralt to sleep off the monumental amount of beer he’d consumed that evening.</p><p>Eskel needn’t have worried. The second he returned from his run the following morning, Geralt pinned him to the wall and stole his breath away with another kiss, hands gripping Eskel’s hips and chest pressed flush to his. As promised, Geralt whispered to his neck, “I love you.” And then he just ambled away to pick up his bowl of cereal; Eskel had to take a moment to recover himself before heading up to the shower.</p><p>The morning only improved when Lambert stepped back through the door, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, forearms coated in grease and a huge grin on his face. “Got the job.”</p><p>Three days later, Jaskier left his halls and moved into the flat permanently. His woefully neglected guitar took up residence next to Eskel’s piano, his meagre pile of books absorbed into the extensive collection at the back of the flat, and his clothes squashed into the wardrobe. Eskel sacrificed some of his many, many red shirts to make some space. This was Jaskier’s home. More than the halls of residence, more than Hertfordshire; it was filled with all the things - and the people - he loved. Just one thing missing really.</p><p>“Eskel,” Jaskier threw his legs over Geralt’s lap and leaned back against Eskel’s shoulder. “How do you feel about a dog?”</p><p>“Yes.” Geralt answered, and Eskel gave in instantly. Who could say no to those soft, blue eyes?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Loving Lambert (E)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aiden lounged back on the bed and watched Lambert prowl the room. The entire outside wall was built from panes of glass, and Lambert gazed down at the city below.  They were so high up that no one apart from a low flying helicopter would be able to see them. Privacy with a view. The room itself was plush. Dark carpets, with a chaise lounge near a low coffee table on one side the room, and the huge, super king sized bed on the other, with a flat screen television on the wall and full mini-fridge. Every other item of furniture was minimalist and utilitarian, with a few abstract paintings adorning the walls. Nothing remotely personal.</p><p>“This is your room permanently?” Lambert asked without looking back. Car, street and traffic lights blinked up at him from the seemingly endless expanse of London below. It had been a <em> long </em> day. Half of it he’d only partially understood - legalese and its attached jargon - but each time he’d looked lost, Aiden had been there to explain it to him. The case was built quickly, and soon Lambert would be seeing his children for the first time in months. Then the battle began to make it permanent; Lambert had insisted his kids get a voice in what they wanted, so there was that to consider too. Aiden disappeared for a few hours to deal with some other cases, and Lambert stayed in his office and read a copy to To Kill a Mockingbird he found on the bookshelves. There had been a note in the front: <em> ‘Dear A. When in doubt, just ask yourself, what would Atticus do? All the best, Smithy.’ </em></p><p>“Yes. When I need to stay overnight. Most days I head back to Cambridge. My neighbour drops round to feed Virtute.” Aiden crossed his legs and laced his fingers together on his stomach. “Lambert, come here, please.” His tone soft, head tilted to the side. It was an order, but one that sounded gentle, enticing, rather than authoritative. It worked, and Lambert abandoned the cityscape to approach the bed. He stood hesitantly at the foot of it, those beautiful, puppy-dog eyes examining Aiden closely. “Get undressed down to your boxers and sit on me. I want to kiss and touch you.” </p><p>Lambert swallowed audibly, but lifted his hands to unbutton his shirt. Aiden waited patiently. Each item of clothing carefully removed and folded neatly on the back of an ornamental chair before Lambert settled a knee on the bottom of the bed, “I - uh, Aiden, I’ve never, um -.”</p><p>“Can we have this conversation with you in my arms, please?” Aiden lifted his hands and held his arms out. “Straddle my lap, lay on my chest.” He beckoned with his fingers, and finally Lambert dropped onto his hands and knees to crawl up the bed. Hesitantly, he settled where he’d been asked, head resting on Aiden’s chest. “Relax. I can take your weight - there, good. Much better.” </p><p>Lambert took a deep breath, inhaling a soothing hit of that rich cologne, and allowed himself to melt against the man beneath him. Manicured hands combed through his hair, down his neck and back, leaving a trail of pleasant tingles that rippled out across Lambert’s skin. When Aiden spoke, his voice was as soft as his touch. "What did you want to talk to me about?"</p><p>“I’ve never been fucked before,” Lambert murmured, his eyes closed as he turned his face up into Aiden’s neck. “I mean, I’ve been pegged once, but it hurt like hell and I’m - ,” he swallowed, “nervous.” It had been bothering him for a while. Because that’s what men did, right? And Aiden hadn’t even asked. Been happy with pleasuring him, and once or twice had let Lambert return the attention. He seemed to prefer giving than receiving, and never got fully undressed. That was bothering Lambert too. Even though he liked the suits. <em> Fuck, </em> did he like the suits.</p><p>“Hmm, I see,” Aiden slid a hand up to the back of Lambert’s head and coaxed it to the side for a gentle kiss; he teased his tongue between pliant lips and while his other hand slid down the curve of Lambert’s waist around to his ass. He kneaded and squeezed, fingers cupping beneath and gliding up the inside of his cleft through his boxers. "Does this frighten you?" Aiden pulled back just far enough to speak.</p><p>"No, it - it feels good. I would like to… just, warning you that I'm not -," he huffed. "I have no fucking idea what I'm doing, alright?" Lambert sat up, hands planted on his thighs. "I’ve only ever kissed and groped a boy in secondary school, we dated for like a month maybe… and then I met Keira, and… I got fucking married. I thought that I can't be bi if I'm happy to choose a woman, so I kinda' went full metal<em> not exploring. </em> I mean, I've obviously given handjobs and shit to - I don't really - ."</p><p>"That explains some things, even if the logic is fucked," Aiden ran his hands down Lambert's chest, unabashedly dropping lower until they found the line of his partial erection. "I want you to rut against me 'til you come, because your body is literally the finest thing I've ever seen."</p><p>"Aren't you gonna' get undressed?" Lambert reached for Aiden's tie and then drew his hands back quickly when they were slapped at. It was light, but he blinked in alarm. </p><p>"No. I’ve told you what you’re going to do. Nothing more." He took Lambert by the chin and pulled him forward for a kiss, guiding his hips until they were positioned over his lap at a slant. It took a little bit of guidance, but Lambert began to grind down with a gentle rhythm, with the first quiet moan hummed into Aiden's mouth when he found the pressure that felt good. </p><p>Fully hard and leaking, Lambert panted into Aiden's shoulder when the coordination for a kiss became too much, his hands buried in his expensive silk shirt. Perhaps it was the sensation of the hard cock inside Aiden's trousers pushing and rubbing against his, more pronounced and satisfying the harder and faster he moved, or the knowledge of the act itself; humping like a horny dog against a man dressed in a thousand pound suit, naked and exposed but for the thin cotton of his underwear. As if this was the pleasure he was <em> allowed </em> . He should feel completely debased, but instead his head was light, and Lambert could feel his climax building inexplicably at the base of his spine. He was going to come in his pants like a teenager and he didn't even fucking care, because Aiden was whispering praise in his ear, kissing his shoulders and stroking his back like he was precious, and it was <em> so good. </em>"You look so hot like this - so wrecked - I wish you could see - ." Breathless.</p><p>Lambert gripped Aiden's jacket, "Ahh - Fu - Aiden - a-ahh." He pressed his hips flush as his cock emptied into his underwear; the feel of Aiden hard against him was a whole new level of bliss, and Lambert flopped forward to bury his face in his chest, silk tie rasping across the stubble on his cheek. Aiden moved him onto his back and took his wrists to pin them above his head; his other hand slid down Lambert’s stomach and under the waistband of his boxers to his oversensitive cock. Lambert squirmed. “Ahh, no. Gimme five minutes, fuck.”</p><p>“Hmm. Is that you being bratty, or is that a Halo?” Aiden paused, eyebrows raised. He was still having to train Lambert. There were so many things he wanted to do. Edge play particularly; Lambert was so sensitive, so <em>untouched</em>. It would be a whole new level of euphoria. But not until he knew the appropriate etiquette to keep himself comfortable. </p><p>“Do I disgust you?” Lambert blurted it out.</p><p>“What?” Aiden’s brow creased. “What on earth makes you think - ?”</p><p>“You never really take your clothes off, and I - uh - you even get changed in the bathroom. We’ve been together for months and I’ve never seen you fully naked,” Lambert didn’t strain against the hands that still held him, but slowly Aiden’s fingers withdrew from his boxers. “I thought maybe you didn’t want me touching you, or - .”</p><p>“No, Lambert, that’s not…” Aiden sat back, palms resting on his thighs. “I feel more comfortable in clothes.”</p><p>“Why? You’re… I’ve <em> seen </em> pictures of - .”</p><p>“You’ve seen pictures of me shirtless six and a half years ago. The rest are all very up-to-date, but that one is quite old.” </p><p>“Right, but I can feel you underneath your suit. You’re solid. Like - it - well. You made me come in my pants.”</p><p>Aiden smiled gently, fingers stroking up Lambert’s thigh. “Has it made you that anxious?”</p><p>“Well - I -,” Lambert sighed. “Yeah. I thought that you weren’t serious about - that you weren’t serious. And I wasn’t looking forward to getting fucked by someone who didn’t want me touching their skin.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Aiden looked down at the bed, and then reached for his tie. He shrugged out of his jacket and popped the top button of his shirt. It was… the right thing to do. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking. Keep his clothes on forever? Only let Lambert touch his cock, face and hands? It was stupid. He chucked his shirt unceremoniously on the floor and waited as Lambert drank him in. There was a burn scar wrapped around the right side of his ribs - many skin grafts and expensive surgeries later, it wasn't as bad as it had been - and a number of fainter lines cut across the front and back of his torso too. "The car accident that killed Barry Smith six years ago. I was in it. The car caught fire while we were waiting for the emergency services. I sat for twenty minutes with his head in my lap because he'd been decapitated by the lorry we hit."</p><p>Lambert sat up slowly. Not because he was wary, but because he didn't want Aiden to spook. Gentle hands reached out and brushed over his sides; Aiden drew in a stuttering breath but did not resist. No one had touched him here in a long time. "You're ashamed of these." Lambert said quietly as he shifted forward. He pulled Aiden to him and then pressed open-mouthed kisses over each affected area. Aiden sighed and gasped, his fingers clenching through Lambert's hair. How a man so gruff could be so gentle was beyond Aiden's understanding, but here he was, touching him so tenderly that he wanted to cry.</p><p>Then their positions were changed and Aiden was sprawled on his back with Lambert's mouth and hands sending thrills of pleasure across his skin, still lavishing love and affection on the areas that shamed him. "Lambert - a-ahh, this is n-not how it's meant to work with the sub-dom thing, f - f - ."</p><p>"Stop talking. Let me show you how much I love every part of you."</p><p>Aiden's heart nearly erupted out of his mouth and he bit back a whimper as an expert tongue laced each scar with tingles of sensation. Lambert pulled Aiden's belt away and pushed his slacks and pants down; Aiden squirmed to help, and his cock brushed tendrils of precome through Lambert's chest hair. He progressed down until his lips wrapped the head of Aiden's cock, one arm binding his thigh while the other stayed extended, the flat his palm resting over scarred ribs. Aiden was pinned and could only moan and gasp as Lambert worked his shaft, tongue swirling around the glans and seeking the join behind the head that made his stomach clench in pleasure. The man may have never taken cock, but fuck did he know how to suck one.</p><p>"Lambert, gonna - come - don't -," He bit out a startled moan and Lambert's arms tightened, binding him in place, as he came. Lambert pulled away only when Aiden's cock had stopped twitching against his tongue, and leaned forward to press a kiss to his stomach. Aiden looked at him with hazy eyes. "Quite the power play, kitten." The grin he received was salaciously feral; he was looking forward to bending the owner over and taming him. Not yet though. He had a plan formulating.</p><p>Half an hour later they were curled up in bed with the lights out. Aiden had been <em>permitted</em> his pants, but Lambert wanted to keep touching him, and was tracing his chest when he spoke. "Virtute is six years old."</p><p>"Yes," Aiden tucked an arm behind his head and kept his eyes closed. Now that he'd relaxed, Lambert's caresses were heavenly. "I struggled after with it all. The injuries and how they'd changed me, the physio, the memories. All of it. I went into a self destructive spiral that I couldn't get out of."</p><p>"How did you?"</p><p>"Time. And a realisation that, while I bore the marks of what had happened, I was still here. Still alive. I didn't want to waste that gift. So, I bought Virtute, runt of the litter, weak and sickly. They said she'd die in a week or so. We got better together."</p><p>"She is literally the biggest fucking cat I have ever seen."</p><p>"Yes." Aiden practically glowed with pride. He loved his obese ball of love, and would feed her all the treats her heart desired.</p><p>"She needs some tough love. When I move in, she's going on a diet."</p><p>Aiden's eyebrows shot up, and he was certain Lambert would hear the grin on his face. When I move in. Yes. Because he had decided he wanted to, so he would. Very Lambert. "Oh. Well, I shall inform her that her days of bountiful Dreamies are numbered."</p><p>Lambert sat up on his elbow and Aiden could see the moonlight reflecting off his eyes. "I love you, Aiden. And - uh - I want to give you everything. All of me. Every part. But it comes with the crap bits too, and I don't want those to make you leave."</p><p>"Hm." Aiden smiled and ran his fingers through short brown hair. "Love you too, kitten. Attitude, scars, the lot." He saw a flash of white teeth and then Lambert flopped onto his chest. Aiden chuckled when the goofball started purring as loudly as he could.</p><p>In two days time, Aiden had to go to Dubai to meet with a big client. Three weeks without Lambert. <em>Hmm. </em>Could still make it fun.</p><p>***</p><p>Aiden sat back on the hotel balcony with his feet propped up on the chair opposite and waited for the call to connect. The sun was scorchingly hot, but in shade with a light breeze filtering out from his room because of the aircon, it was pleasant. When Lambert's face finally appeared through the WiFi haze, he grinned. "Hey kitten, you've brightened my day."</p><p>Lambert smirked and leaned back on the mattress. "Must have had a pretty shit day so far."</p><p>"Gonna' ignore that. Did you get my present?"</p><p>"Yes," Lambert flushed, sheepish. "Did you really have to get it posted? I started opening it in front of Eskel because I had no fucking idea what it was. He was wheezing with laughter for <em> three hours</em>."</p><p>"When I get home, the first thing I want to do is take you to a nice hotel, with Michelin star food and a spa, and bury my cock in you. I want you to enjoy every second. Can't do that if you're anxious and unprepared."</p><p>"Right." The thought of Aiden inside him was definitely… good. Very good. He could feel his cock beginning to thicken inside his pants, and it must have shown on his face, because -</p><p>"Get naked. I want to watch you use the first one."</p><p>"Wh-what?" Lambert's eyes widened.</p><p>"I've been here for a week with stuffy business types. I'm exclusive now so I can't even go find a nice ass to enjoy. Get your kit off, get the toys and some lube." Aiden leaned back in his chair, head tilted to the side. "C'mon, beautiful. Give me something to daydream about in my meetings."</p><p>"Okay," Lambert glanced over his shoulder. No one was in. Flat was empty. So, that wasn't the problem. This was… right. He propped the phone up on the headboard and left the bed to find the box he'd hidden in the bottom of his wardrobe. It contained four dildos of varying sizes and a bottle of water-based lube. "Which one?" </p><p>"Smallest first. One of the middle ones vibrates. Biggest one is a cast of my actual cock."</p><p>"Well, holy shit." Lambert eyed the biggest with a slight tinge of apprehension - <em> that was thick, and long, would that even fucking fit, fuck </em> - even though he'd touched Aiden, sucked him off, now that he realised that had to <em> fit </em> inside him, he wasn't even - <em>f</em><em>uck. </em>He grabbed the smallest of the collection and returned to the bed. Shirt cast to the floor off, he kicked his trousers and pants away, only to hesitate when he glanced at the phone. "How does this - how should I - ?"</p><p>"Hmm. On your back, ass towards me, legs spread and tucked up towards your chest when you're ready."</p><p>"There's no one there, right? You're on your own, and somewhere - ."</p><p>"Lambert, I'm on my hotel balcony with no one above, below or at the sides. Please trust me. Lay down, let me see how beautiful you are."</p><p>Lambert swallowed and climbed onto the mattress. With a little bit of shuffling he got into position, feet still planted on the bed for the time being. His cock was hard because it was <em> Aiden </em> he could see on the screen, and even from this distance he could see the hungry look in his eye. "Right, so I just put lube on it and - ?"</p><p>"Not yet. You need to relax. I can see how tense you are. Put some on your hand, massage your balls, behind them and then your hole. Slow, firm. Breathe deeply."</p><p><em> He said it so fucking easily. </em> Lambert grabbed the bottle and squeezed out a generous amount into his palm. Right, easy, he was a thirty-two year old man, the only difference to usual procedure was the end result, and Aiden watching. Lambert slid his hand down the crease of his thigh and allowed his eyes to drift close. With careful fingers he cupped his balls and found the spot Aiden had shown him, sucking in a quiet gasp as he rubbed in a firm circle. </p><p>"Oh, <em> fuck</em>, you're going to love this so much - you're so sensitive - made to have a cock inside you, making you moan - ."</p><p>"Aiden," a breathless chuckle as Lambert's hand drifted lower, until his fingers were finally stroking around his rim. Didn't feel bad. Weird at first. As the lubricant smeared across his skin and the muscle began to relax, he dipped a finger inside experimentally. </p><p>"Lift your legs, Lambert. Keep breathing nice and slow."</p><p>He didn't hesitate. Just a light shuffle and a readjustment of his arm.<em> Oh fuck</em>, yeah, that was better. Knees tucked towards his chest and ass spread, he had much better access, and his finger dipped inside further, pressing against his walls. He let out his first breathy moan, because it felt <em> good</em>. Muscles tensed and relaxed around the intrusion, and when he touched his cock with his other hand he realised his body clenched automatically.</p><p>"Yes, fuck - you're gorgeous. How does it feel? Can you slide your finger all the way in? Try adding a second."</p><p>"Y - yeah, s'good."</p><p>Aiden had thought he'd be able to watch without having to see to himself, but Lambert was perfect. His ass toned and his tight little hole sucked at his fingers in the most delicious way; Aiden's cock strained against the confines of his shorts, and he headed inside to sit on his own bed, eyes fixated on the phone screen. "Okay. Grab the dildo. Drench it in lube. We can play with friction and burn later, but this needs to feel painless to train you, alright?"</p><p>Because his stupid bint of an ex-wife had ruined <em> that </em>with a single pegging experience. There were some things one could not bring up in polite conversation, but Aiden desperately wanted to berate her for not even taking the damned care to make her husband comfortable with something like this. He watched as Lambert stretched across the bed for the toy, and then coated it as instructed. "Good. Now don't push it in straight away, just circle the end at your entrance, little ones, teasing. Don't touch your cock until it's in. Your body will tense and make it difficult."</p><p>"Mmph," Lambert panted as he put the toy behind his thighs and then guided the end to his hole. Relaxed muscles accepted the tip just inside and he teased it around as Aiden directed, biting his lower lip as his body adjusted. He slid it in the first inch and whimpered at the stretch. Didn't hurt. Not like he expected. There was just <em> a lot. </em> Fuck, if this was a <em> quarter </em> of the size.. what the actual f - "Ahh, mm." He arched off the bed as another inch brushed across <em> something. </em> "F - fuck, Aiden. That…"</p><p>"Is the spot you want, kitten. Doing so well. So beautiful." Aiden unbuttoned his fly and pulled out his cock. It lay hot and heavy over his stomach. Couldn't get distracted just yet. "Nearly all of it. You should see yourself, look so good splayed open like this. If it feels like too much, push back against it slightly, will help you get past that little bit of resistance you feel."</p><p>"Mmm," Lambert pressed until he felt the base of the toy against his ass, and then paused, eyes lidded. He flexed and relaxed, adjusting to the sensation of being filled. And then he moved it, found <em> that </em> spot again and nearly kicked his fucking phone off the headboard in surprise. " <em> Fuck. </em>"</p><p>"Good. Move it. Touch your cock now. Wanna' see you come for me." Aiden finally wrapped a hand around his own and groaned quietly in appreciation, because his lover began to fuck himself with the toy and Aiden wanted nothing more than to be there instead. "Lambert - fuck - ."</p><p>The pleasure was a whole new level to what Lambert had experienced before. He knew enough to figure this must be his prostate, and their acquaintance was fucking long overdue. No wonder Eskel preferred bottoming. This. <em> Fuck. </em> He squeezed along the length of his shaft and arched into the toy as he began to move it more enthusiastically, thighs tucked close to his chest. Pants were laced with moans, and he glanced up at his phone to see Aiden's wide eyes watching him, "Look what you've done to me." Aiden turned the phone down to his cock, thick and flushed, and Lambert could only whimper in response. The sight spiked the arousal through his groin and his entire body spasmed through its orgasm. An orgasm that blew his fucking mind out his ears. He'd never got come on his chest and neck before. <em> Shit. </em> </p><p>Aiden came shortly after and Lambert got to see his cock pulsing and spurting over his palm. They both lay panting thousands of miles and several time zones apart, but Lambert felt the intimacy of having Aiden close all the same. "Hey kitten, how’re you feeling?"</p><p>"Fucked." Lambert murmured, wincing as he pulled the toy out of his ass and chucked it to the side. "Need a shower." </p><p>"Make sure you clean it using the stuff in the box. Other cleaners will damage it," Aiden set his phone down on his bedside table and found an old t-shirt to clean himself off on. "Try doing it again a couple of times, and then, when you're comfortable, we can move up a size."</p><p>"Mmm." Lambert reached up and took the phone from the headboard. Didn't want to hang up. He just watched Aiden shuffle about his bed, check a text that popped up on his smart watch, and when he finally looked back at Lambert, he grinned that dopey little grin of his when he was caught off guard.</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"You're pretty."</p><p>"Pretty? Well, now I'm gonna' have to go punch some things and drink raw eggs to replenish my masculinity," Aiden picked the phone up and brought it to his forehead, as if he could feel Lambert through it. "Talk later, kitten. Be good."</p><p>*** </p><p>The next time Aiden rang it was Lambert who suggested some play, and how could Aiden say no? The man was in his bed - <em> their </em> bed in his house - looking ruffled and delicious. This time he wanted to <em> ride </em> one. The offer was made with a salacious little tease. Lambert hooked up his t-shirt with two fingers and slid a thumb into the waistband of his boxers to pull them low enough to show the top of his cock. Already hard, it sprang free when Aiden demanded his underwear be pulled lower. "Are you a gift from God?" Aiden murmured, immediately kicking away his slacks and underwear and throwing himself onto his bed in the hotel room. </p><p>The perspective adjusted as Lambert placed his phone against the pillows, with a smirk. "Yeah. No returns though."</p><p>Lambert had upgraded to the next size and this one vibrated. Already lubed and relaxed - had to do something while Aiden's meeting was going on - he got up onto his knees, and placed the toy between his legs. It was inert as he lowered himself onto it, hand tucking his balls out of the way so that Aiden could watch it sink into him. "A-ahh - nffgg - it's - ."</p><p>"Bigger. Be careful with that position, if it falls over it'll hurt you. Keep pressed low and grind on it rather than bounce." Aiden whispered, fingers already working down his own shaft. "Turn on the vibrate. It'll wreck your little ass."</p><p>It did. Lambert lifted the phone at one point as ordered and Aiden marvelled at the sheen of sweat on his skin, and the awed pleasure permeating every feature of his face; the way his body gyrated, cock thrusting through his fist. "A-ahh, fuck, Aiden… mm, nnffgg, a-ahh." The phone had to go back on the pillows because Lambert was shaking too much to hold it steady. His hips rolled athletically to grind him down onto the thick length inside him; it was enough of a display for Aiden to finish quickly - fuck, he wanted to be home - and Lambert shouted desperately when he came, thighs shaking with the force of the tremors. He folded completely as the pleasure wracking through him rendered him boneless in the best possible way. </p><p>A shuddering hand reached behind to discard the toy. Aiden could see his shoulders heaving, but not much else as his face buried in the bed out of sight. "Lambert. You alright?"</p><p>"Lambert's not... here right now. Please… leave a message… and I'll get back to you when I locate… reality again."</p><p>Aiden laughed. "Fucking goofball," he stroked his thumb over the screen. "One more week and I can touch you. Gonna take you away for a whole weekend and fuck you senseless."</p><p>"Good," Lambert rolled onto his back, and held the phone above his head. "I miss you." Your smell, your lips, your hugs, your laugh, your voice, your -</p><p>"Miss you too. Be home soon," Aiden pressed his lips to the camera like the sap he was and Lambert smiled at the usual demand before the line went dead. "Be good."</p><p>***</p><p>In addition to chatting and sexting, every day Aiden sent a single message without fail. The time varied. <em> What're you doing? </em> The rule was that Lambert had to send pictures in response and Aiden quickly built up an album on his phone labelled 'Kitten Being Cute and/or Extra'.</p><p>Lambert fixing a car and greased up; Lambert on the toilet with a middle finger at the camera; Lambert hugging/headlocking a very disapproving Geralt; Lambert squashed between Jaskier and Eskel on the sofa, both looking at him fondly; Lambert with his niece on his back and her tongue poking out at the camera; Lambert sweating in the gym - mm, yeah; <em> Lambert naked in the shower with a hand wrapped around his hard cock, tongue out, winking up at the camera held above him, muscles glistening, hair plastered to his head - holy fuck. </em>That one had appeared halfway through a meeting and he’d had to stay seated for quite some time while its impact disappeared. </p><p>Aiden made a few requests once it was clear what was on the table, including that pose with the t-shirt and the boxers because it was staggeringly hot, and Lambert sent them through with one caveat: 'if you put them on onlyfans, I want my fucking cut'. Aiden sent a few of his own in return to even the playing field, and Lambert replied with aubergine and water emojis.</p><p>As he scrolled through his Kitten Portfolio one evening while sitting in the bar of the hotel, Aiden had a dawning realisation that made his heart swell, and he accepted it without reservation. He was going to marry this man and love him for an eternity.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We are probably going to end up going beyond the chapter count, peeps. I'll keep you posted. Thank you for all your comments; they have been amazing. I'll get 'round to answering them all, but assumed you'd prefer more content!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Weekend at Home (E)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Don’t burn the flat down while I’m away. I’ve cooked several batches of stuff. It’s in the freezer. And for fuck’s sake, do not get come on the sofa.” Lambert shouldered his duffel bag as Aiden’s BMW pulled up on the road outside. </p><p>“Romantic weekend away with your sugar daddy. Would’ve never called it.” Eskel smirked from where he sat at his piano. They had a quiet evening planned as a change from their usual Friday, which had now been christened ‘date night’, but Jaskier had heard of this brilliant new fantasy series on Netflix with a ‘hot male lead’, swords and monsters. He had Eskel at ‘hot male lead’. Geralt was less convinced.</p><p>“He’s not - don’t - you know what, fuck you.”</p><p>“No, he’s going to fuck you. That’s the point.” Geralt chimed in, not looking up from his newspaper, voice deadpan.</p><p>“Right, now that I’ve been slut-shamed by Geralt, I’m out. Enjoy your Netflix and chill.” Lambert flicked his hand above his shoulder as he walked out the front door. Eskel turned in his seat and watched through the window until Lambert appeared from the garage; he dumped his bag in the boot, slid into the passenger seat and was immediately hauled across the centre console for a kiss. Aiden was tanned from his time in Dubai, dressed in an astonishingly dapper three piece suit from what Eskel could see, and wasn’t going to allow a little thing like jetlag get between him and some alone time with Lambert.</p><p>“I’m so glad that’s working out.” Eskel picked his tumbler of whiskey up from the top of the piano as the car drove away.</p><p>“Aiden has the patience of a saint.” Geralt folded his paper, chucked it onto the coffee table and leaned back. “I can count on one hand the amount of operations we conducted when I <em> didn’t </em> consider shooting him.” </p><p>“Don’t be a sourpuss, fluffykins,” Eskel threw himself down on the sofa and Geralt immediately hooked him in close to exact revenge; a headlock with knuckles scrubbed on the top of his head. The tussle lasted all of two minutes before Eskel was slumped across Geralt’s lap, head on the armrest and Geralt’s tongue in his mouth. He could get used to this tactile creature that wanted to touch him all the time. Not surprising. Geralt liked touching pleasant things; furry animals, the soft fleece of Eskel’s dressing gown, Jaskier’s silk scarves and shirts. He didn’t seem to notice he was doing it half the time. Eskel hummed, “Culloden Hotel though. There’s some serious money behind that pretty face.”</p><p>“Well, when he turned up in an Armani suit for bolognese I worked that out quickly. Lambert’s more… Primarni.” Geralt had heard Ciri use the term, and by the look of astounded amusement on Eskel’s face, he had clearly used it properly. “Is Jaskier still in the shower?”</p><p>“He has a highly involved skincare routine.”</p><p>“How invested is he in this show on Netflix?”</p><p>“Apparently the lead reminds him of you.”</p><p>“What if he could have the real thing instead?” Geralt tilted his head to the side. He’d been considering it for the last two weeks. They were onto date four or five now, and while he enjoyed it when Jaskier slumped across his lap, the kisses and the petting of his hair, he was very much interested in the firm, lithe body he could feel against his chest whenever they sat together on the sofa. And there was that picture of Eskel he’d seen on Eskel’s phone before <em> everything </em> that his mind had latched onto obsessively. </p><p>Jaskier was desperately interested, but he was still young enough to be slightly <em> coy </em> around someone he perceived to be intimidating. Geralt enjoyed the game of cat and mouse for a little while; sometimes reacting to gentle caresses with a tilt of the head or a kiss, and others bordering on unresponsive, ruffling Jaskier’s hair and holding him fast with a one-armed embrace so he could do nothing more than sit and scowl. Eskel scolded him for it on more than one occasion, but there was something about Jaskier's petulant little pout that drove Geralt to just <em> do it more. </em></p><p>“Hm.” Eskel tilted his head against the armrest, and then rolled up onto his feet. He took Geralt by the front of his shirt and hauled him towards the stairs; sometimes he had to make the executive decisions around here. Their little songbird was trilling away to himself in the bathroom. The water was off, which meant he was at the moisturising stage. Eskel backed Geralt towards the bed, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt before lifting it over his head; he smoothed his hands over Geralt's chest and down to his waist as he pressed his lips into the crook of his neck. The grunt of surprise as his teeth nipped possessively was deeply satisfying, and he lapped a long line up to Geralt’s ear before shoving him down onto the mattress. Eskel straddled narrow hips and kept a palm firmly planted in the centre of the broad chest beneath him, the other picking open the buttons of his own shirt.</p><p>There weren’t many men bigger, and even fewer that could overpower him; Geralt felt a thrill run up his spine as his eyes ran across Eskel’s shoulders and chest once they were bare. He’d seen it all before. Glimpses from the corner of his eye because he studiously kept his attention elsewhere, but now he could really <em> look</em>, the desire knotted deep in the pit of his stomach. He could be crushed by those thick arms and die a happy man. But tonight he wanted to possess this powerful body, feel it shiver and tense around him as he pleasured it.</p><p>Eskel leaned down and swirled his tongue around a hardened nipple, earning himself another suppressed huff, “Stay here. Don’t move.” And then he was gone, heading into the bathroom, and Geralt was left to work open his tented jeans and relieve the crushing pressure on his cock. Once they were kicked away, he followed orders, staying sprawled over the bed with his feet still on the floor, and listened as Jaskier squeaked in surprise.</p><p>“Ah, Eskel, going to jo--, a-ahh, that - yes, please - oh, okay then.” Eskel appeared moments later with Jaskier wrapped around his chest, legs at his waist and arms around his shoulders, completely naked, with damp tousled hair. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Geralt there with his boxers straining; his eyes widened in excitement. “Well, this is a thoroughly enjoyable turn of events.”</p><p>“Are you alright with it?” Eskel murmured into the side of Jaskier’s neck, his forearm still propped beneath his backside.</p><p>“Is the Pope Catholic?” </p><p>Eskel placed his precious cargo over Geralt’s stomach, a kiss pressed to Jaskier’s lips, before he fell to his knees in front of them. Jaskier glanced over his shoulder just as Geralt’s hand slid around his hips, thumbs pushing into the muscle of his ass. He arched appreciatively into it and then watched Geralt gasp in surprise because, as Jaskier had been distracted by the pretty blue eyes and halo of white hair behind him, Eskel had been working Geralt’s boxers down and was now lapping enthusiastically over the thick vein under his shaft. </p><p>Jaskier sat back on the toned stomach beneath him and slid a hand through Eskel’s hair. “That tongue of yours isn’t just good for languages and poems, is it?” He grinned at the hum of acknowledgement and felt Geralt writhe as Eskel swallowed him hungrily. One of those big hands wrapped around Jaskier’s length, and he rocked into it even as he pushed Eskel’s head down onto Geralt. “Come on Eskel, I know you can take him all.” He received a <em> threatening </em> little glare from those hazel eyes - a promise of proportional retribution - as Eskel took Geralt into his throat, cheeks hollow.</p><p>“<em>Eskel</em>,” Geralt growled and writhed, head pushed back; he finally lost patience and yanked Jaskier’s hips back until his ass was within reach of his mouth. Jaskier moaned as Geralt’s thumbs spread him open and his tongue lapped into his cleft, hand leaving Eskel’s hair to join the other in bracing on the bed either side of Geralt’s hips.</p><p>“F -  fuck, Geralt, I didn’t know you had it in y -- ahh!” Jaskier’s sensitive rim tensed and fluttered beneath the tip of Geralt's tongue, and he slid a hand down to stroke his shaft again with a lazy rhythm. The pressure built slowly in his hips and he watched Eskel strip away the rest of his clothes and dip to the bedside for a condom, which was then slid down Geralt’s cock. Jaskier shuffled back, eager to see Eskel mount the impressive prick twitching and throbbing before his eyes. The sensitive underside of his own brushed over the bristles of Geralt’s chin. “Geralt, is this o-- oh, oh, yeah, right.” Geralt dragged him back further and mouthed around the head of his cock until his hips dipped in a slow, careful rhythm, rubbing it across the flat of Geralt’s tongue.</p><p>With only a quick palmful of lubricant applied, Eskel straddled Geralt’s hips and reached between his thighs to guide the sheathed cock into his hole. Jaskier felt Geralt’s rumble of appreciation vibrate through his entire body as Eskel sank down with tentative rocks of his hips. “Aah-ahh, mm.” Eskel bit back his moans at first, but his control fragmented as  the pressure of Geralt filling him pushed any thought of embarrassment from his head. One of those big hands snagged a handful of Jaskier’s hair and pulled him in for a wet, uncoordinated kiss, before pushing him down towards his cock. Jaskier immediately wrapped his lips around Eskel, tongue lapping the precome from his slit before he sucked him deeper, eyes rolling up to watch Eskel’s face crumble in awed pleasure. </p><p>Eskel ground himself down on Geralt’s cock, his own thrusting deep into Jaskier’s mouth, held firm by the fingers spread over the back of his head. Jaskier mewled and whined, eyes watering, but gripped keenly onto the muscled thighs flexing with the efforts of their movements. He wanted the thick cock in his mouth, wanted it butting against the back of his throat; the taste, the feel, drunk on Eskel. Geralt lifted Jaskier’s hips away, mouth suckling around his balls and over his perineum like a man feasting at a banquet; his growls and moans shivering up through Jaskier’s body.</p><p>As the youngest man in the room, Jaskier had expected to be the last one proverbially standing, but under the skill of Geralt’s mouth and the stretch of Eskel in his own, he came on Geralt’s chest with a low groan, held fast by the firm grip on his hips. He shook as Geralt continued to lap and suckle at the sensitive skin around his cleft, until finally he wriggled free and flopped to the side. With the loss of Jaskier to occupy him, Geralt sat up and wrapped his hands around Eskel. He kneaded into the tight ass riding him, and rubbed his face into Eskel's chest with a pleased growl. All this power and strength, impaled and quivering on his cock, but he could be further undone.</p><p>Geralt pushed Eskel from his lap, guided him onto his knees near the edge of the bed and stood behind him, tapping the head of his cock against the taut, glistening hole clenching eagerly for it. “You’re being too quiet, Eskel.” </p><p>Eskel dropped his chest to the bed and reached behind to spread himself open, "Then fuck me properly, wolf." His body was already humming with pleasure, and he moaned his appreciation when Geralt pushed back inside to stoke it further. Even his body couldn't quite believe whose cock was driving it to new heights of ecstasy, and every time Eskel caught a glimpse of Geralt from his peripheral vision, his stomach knotted and his chest felt light. Geralt was fucking him, and he was enjoying it. <em>Wanted it. </em>And it felt <em>so fucking good. </em></p><p>The pace was swift and brutal. The wet slap of Geralt's hips against Eskel’s ass accompanied by cries and moans of overwrought pleasure as he found the spot that made Eskel arch and quake. Jaskier managed to gather enough of his wits back to slide over and lavish kisses on Eskel’s neck and shoulders, one hand stroking down his firm chest and abdomen to wrap the thick, leaking cock hanging between his thighs. "Geralt, ah-aahh!"  Eskel dropped his hands and snagged the sheets in a white knuckle grip, his cock pulsing in Jaskier's palm as he emptied on the comforter below. The hard clench of Eskel’s body was enough for Geralt to reach his peak with a few languid thrusts, and he pressed his hips against Eskel’s ass to enjoy every tremor, head thrown back.</p><p>A lazy calm settled. Geralt leaned over his lover, knuckles pressed into the mattress. He caught a glimpse of glazed hazel eyes as Eskel cast a quick glance over his shoulder. While Jaskier looked at Geralt with a kind of wonder, and was met with a raised brow.</p><p>“Eskel said you’d never been with a man, I’m inclined to disbelieve him.”</p><p>“Hm, don’t, he’s right.” Geralt withdrew his softening cock gently after pressing a kiss to Eskel’s back. “My ex-wife was very creative. I just did to you what I enjoyed. Clearly I was taught well.” </p><p>Jaskier stared after Geralt as he walked towards the bathroom to clean off, and then looked back at Eskel with an open mouth. “His ex-wife did - ?”</p><p>“Mm. Yennefer is a very interesting woman, however, discussing his ex-wife while I can still feel his cock in my ass is not my idea of good pillow talk,” Eskel grumbled and rolled over with a quiet gasp. “Fuck. Feels good.” </p><p>“The ache?”</p><p>“Mm. Seems I now have two partners who can make my eyes roll into the back of my head, and not just with exasperation.” Jaskier grinned and shifted out of the way when Geralt returned. They folded around Eskel, who made some effort to clean his chest using the shirt he’d discarded earlier, before burrowing under the blankets. Whereas Jaskier and Eskel usually had a chat afterwards, apparently Geralt’s idea of aftercare was to wrap around them both, pull them tightly to his body and fall asleep with a pleased rumble. <em> Fair enough. </em></p><p>***</p><p>It was early morning when Jaskier felt the brush of stubble across the back of his neck. At some point they must have shifted positions, because he was now squashed between two broad chests, their owners running gentle hands over his body to wake him. “Mmph, what time is it?” Eskel nudged him over for a kiss; Jaskier opened his mouth and moaned softly as someone’s hand - he had no bloody idea who, they both had man-paws - slid down his body to stroke his rapidly hardening cock. “Oh, that time.” </p><p>He heard the low rumble of a chuckle and then lazily rolled over onto his back when Eskel tapped his hip. When thick fingers brushed between his thighs to circle meaningfully behind his balls, he arched in encouragement. “Yes, yes, <em> please.</em>” Jaskier gazed down his chest to the beastly erection his lover was currently resting in the crease of one of his thighs, lower lip between his teeth. “<em>Fuck</em>, come in me. Fill me up, Eskel.” He grabbed his own thighs and pulled them back, shimmying and writhing until Eskel’s eyes blew wide and those big fingers were coated in lubricant and teasing around his rim. “Mmm, y - yeah, more, <em> more.”</em></p><p>“Quite vocal, aren’t you, little lark?” Geralt  was propped up on his elbow at Jaskier’s side, one of his hands gliding slowly through the soft, downy hair on Jaskier’s chest; he was enjoying the show. </p><p>“If you can think of a better use for my mouth, wolf, you’re welcome to it.” Jaskier purred, and then arched again when the head of Eskel’s cock breached him. It was <em> always </em> so much. There was no preparing for it. But the glorious stretch was half the fun and Jaskier canted his hips greedily, urging Eskel deeper because he was a size queen and the man had <em> size </em> to spare, “Nnfgg - yeah, Eskel - fuck, <em> yes</em>!” He let go of his legs and settled them at Eskel’s shoulders. Geralt took his wrists, pinned them above his head and straddled his chest. He leaned forward until the tip of his cock brushed Jaskier’s lower lip.</p><p>“If it’s too much, songbird. Squeeze my hand twice.”</p><p>Rendered speechless as Eskel pushed hilt deep into his ass, Jaskier could only nod his head and drop his mouth open in acceptance. He moaned and purred around Geralt’s shaft, earning himself a pleased growl as Geralt slowly rocked his hips, sliding himself only as far as the back of Jaskier’s mouth before he withdrew. <em> That would simply not do. </em> Jaskier lifted his head to force Geralt deeper, until he could almost reach the dark curls at the base, his throat only just accepting the swell of his head. Geralt huffed, mouth open and eyes glazed, and Jaskier smirked around him in victory, sucking and swirling his tongue until the wolf picked up his pace and <em> genuinely </em> started fucking his mouth.</p><p>From behind, Eskel admired the flex of Geralt’s back as the first beads of sweat formed down his spine, and curled one hand around Jaskier’s cock to strip him in time with the hard, swift thrusts of his own hips. Their lark’s body was wonderfully tight and Eskel turned his head to press a kiss to the calf muscle slanted across his collarbone as he drew closer.</p><p>Jaskier was moaning and whining in a constant stream of muffled noise, and the vibrations coiled in Geralt’s hips to what was going to be a very swift orgasm. Perhaps it was how beautiful his new lover was; his blue eyes bright, his brown hair ruffled and his features almost angelic, yet lascivious in their wanton enjoyment of this plundering. “Jas - kier, close,” Geralt gasped, “Squeeze one for mouth, twice - for face, three for none.” There was a look of delirious glee in the eyes of the man below him, and for a moment he wasn’t sure whether he’d been understood, and then his palm was squeezed just the once and he felt the flick of a tongue at the underside of his head. He came hard. “F - fuck.” A low grunt as he emptied between those pretty lips, which <em> sucked it all down</em>. </p><p>It took only a handful of moments for Jaskier to climax, his cock jerking against Eskel’s palm and spilling a criminal amount onto his own groin. Jaskier felt the heat of Eskel’s release too, moaning loudly at the way his thick length spasmed and pulsed inside him, filling him just as he’d asked. When Eskel withdrew, he pressed his fingers into Jaskier’s gaping hole and smeared through the come leaking out of it; Jaskier keened. “Aa-ahh, Eskel!” Geralt still had him pinned, cock resting next to his chin, and smirked down at him as he writhed and whimpered with hypersensitivity. </p><p>“Hm, he’s pretty when he’s full of our come, Eskel.” Geralt tilted his head to the side, and then finally sat back onto Jaskier’s chest, his weight supported by his own heels as he glanced over his shoulder. His answer was a quiet chuckle, and Eskel finally slipped two fingers inside to tease Jaskier’s prostate. </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“I know you can take it all, Jaskier.” Eskel murmured. </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“I - I can’t - it’s aah-ahh, mm, nffg, <em> Eskel, please.</em>” Jaskier gripped Geralt’s thighs, because they were the closest thing, keeping him pinned. <em> Was that another orgasm? </em> He wasn’t even sure; it was so intense that his vision edged in grey. “Eskel… ahhh…” The stimulation stopped as Eskel withdrew, and then placed a kiss to his thigh. “You - evil - bad… bear. <em> Bad bear.</em>” </p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>“Hm.” Eskel grinned and sloped off to the bathroom for a shower. Jaskier, completely fucked out, slipped into a dazed sleep. When Geralt slid into the shower behind Eskel, pressing his body up against his and his lips to his neck, Eskel melted back against him. “Need to get you tested. I want to fill him up with both of us.”</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Geralt hummed his agreement and then took great pleasure in washing Eskel, ensuring that their bodies touched as much as possible, until he finally had Eskel hard again. He made him plant his hands against the shower door and fucked his thighs while he stroked him to completion. The weekend was never intended to be spent in bed together, but clearly that was the direction they were heading, because Geralt would never get bored with the way Eskel arched needily into him, his body at the mercy of Geralt’s hands and mouth. He and Jaskier were going to erase every trace of Letho, every trace of pain, everything that made Eskel sad, everything that made him feel worthless. <em> Because he was theirs now. </em> “My bear.” Geralt growled into Eskel’s shoulder, and then grinned at the gasped, “Yes.”</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Weekend Away (E)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lambert had never experienced travel <em> quite </em> like this. Firstly, boarding an aeroplane that he wasn’t going to jump out of was a bit of a novelty, as was being escorted into first class rather than sitting in economy; even his honeymoon had been at Butlins in Somerset because he and Keira had been piss poor at the time. When Aiden said that the spa he wanted to visit was in <em> Belfast</em>, Lambert had raised protest at the needless expense, only to be met with a level, placid look that told him he might as well be trying to convince a brick wall. So, Lambert Murphy, ex-soldier, born on a Hackney council estate, sat in first class on a British Airways flight feeling <em> hugely </em> out of place. It was a late night flight, and they’d arrive at the hotel in time to catch a few hours sleep before their Saturday began. </p><p>“Lambert, you can lean back, you know. There’s no extra cost.” Aiden smiled around his whiskey glass. His answer was a scowl, but Lambert slid back in his seat and tightened the belt at his waist. It was a short flight. Barely an hour and a half between take off and landing, but by the time they were sitting in the back of a taxi, Aiden was looking exhausted. Thankfully, it was only a ten minute drive out of Belfast city centre to the Culloden <em> estate </em>. It was essentially a stately home, with twelve acres of woodland and gardens. It sat on the County Antrim coastline, and Lambert could scent the sea on the air when they stepped out into the courtyard.</p><p>The foyer was full of antiques, decorated in elegant reds, golds and beiges and Lambert felt even more out of place. By the time they stumbled in their room, and he realised it was almost as big in total as the ground floor of their flat, he sat on the bed with his head in his hands. Aiden, as tired as he was, stroked a hand through his hair. “What’s wrong, kitten?”</p><p>“Aiden, I -,” Lambert glanced out of the huge bay window in the woodlands beyond, “I can’t afford to pay you back for this.”</p><p>“What do you mean pay me back?”</p><p>“I - well, it’s - the mechanic job doesn’t pay a huge amount, and I want to start giving Eskel some rent for a bit, and then Keira gets a chunk of everything. It - I’ll have to pay you back in increments.” Lambert rubbed his palms over his face, and then bent down to unlace his boots, but Aiden slipped a hand beneath his chin and tilted his head back.</p><p>“If this is masculine pride, it needs to leave this hotel and find its way back to England, because I won’t tolerate it.” </p><p>“Wh -  what do you mean?”</p><p>“Why do you think you need to pay me back?”</p><p>The flare of anger was unexpected, and Aiden released Lambert’s chin to give him space when he saw it. “Because I’m not your… <em> pet, </em> I’m <em> equal </em> in this, alright?” The sugar daddy comment had got under his skin. He hadn’t realised until he’d looked at the huge stately house and thought that <em> Aiden might be. </em> And the feelings of inadequacy had built rapidly until the pressure hurt his head. “I need to pay my way. And I will.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Aiden stepped back and began to undress. He folded his clothes neatly into the suit bag he’d brought with him from home, and remained only in his pants as he slipped into bed. It was <em> nice </em> to be able to sleep bare with a partner and not have to worry, and he sighed in contentment when his lover finally slid up against him, one of those coarse palms alighting gently on his side. “Do you remember when I told you I enjoyed taking care of my lovers?”</p><p>“Yes.” Lambert’s voice muffled where he was pressed into Aiden’s shoulder. He was inhaling the scent and the warmth of him after three weeks of cold turkey, and it was making him a little bit light-headed. There was also the little matter of feeling like an ungrateful prick now that his anxiety had settled to a manageable level.</p><p>“This is part of how I do it, Lambert. I enjoy taking them away, buying them things they want and that will bring them pleasure, feeding them good food,” he combed his fingers through short brown hair and down the back of Lambert’s neck until his arm extended down his back. His feral kitten was melting into him. “Please let me. It brings me a huge amount of happiness. I - it’s not because I think less of you, or - I don’t - you’re special to me - I -.” Aiden was tired, his ability to verbalise his ideas was waning considerably and he slumped back into the pillow, eyes flickering closed to try and find the remnants of his composure. Thankfully, he didn’t need to, because Lambert hummed.</p><p>“Go to sleep, Aiden. I get it,” he craned up and kissed him gently. It was unfair to make him delve into this when he was exhausted from the last three weeks. This weekend was meant to be a break for him too, not spent angsting over the bullshit in Lambert’s head. “I’ll be your boy toy, as long as you let me look after you too.”</p><p>“Mm. Boy toy.” Aiden smiled sleepily, and it was the last thing he said; the next sound was a soft snuffle as he rolled over and wound himself around Lambert’s back when he turned. <em> Yeah - he could look after Aiden too. Cook for him, and make sure he slept properly, put his cat on a diet so she didn’t get diabetes, things like that. Didn’t require money, right? Just love, and time, and - </em> Lambert fell asleep plotting all the ways he could demonstrate how much he cared.</p><p>***</p><p>They slept most of the morning, which Aiden had predicted and so hadn’t booked any treatments until the afternoon. He woke first - surprising - and spent some time stroking Lambert’s back until he stirred. It was the morning so Aiden was hard, and he slid his cock up against the cleft of Lambert’s ass, teasing himself as much as his lover. <em> Tonight. </em>After all their treatments, when Lambert was soft, doughy and relaxed, he would take him, but for now he urged his dutiful partner over and pushed his head down until that wicked mouth was wrapped around his cock. “Oh, God - mm, Lambert -.” He combed his fingers through bed-tousled hair and watched down the slope of his chest as he was so expertly serviced; one of those rough hands gripped his base so that Lambert could work his head and he came with a low groan. “You’re so beautiful.”</p><p>Lambert’s tongue darted out across his lips and he snorted, “Think you’re still jet lagged.” Aiden took his chin and pulled him up roughly for a kiss, his own erection rubbing along the bed. <em> Yeah, sucking on Aiden turned him on big time, so sue him.  </em></p><p>“Up on your knees, spread, hands on your thighs.” Aiden knew his orders would be obeyed; Lambert was getting good at that bit. Once his lover was positioned, Aiden knelt behind him, his knees planted between Lambert’s calves as he reached around the front and took his cock. </p><p>“You’re beautiful, and I’m going to tell you why while I make you come,” he stroked slowly at first, his other hand stilling Lambert’s hips when he tried to thrust into his fist, “Let’s start with the easy things shall we? Those lovely chocolate eyes - so expressive, make you look like a puppy - so cute - your shoulders, your chest, your back, all so strong, so perfectly shaped - tight little ass, lovely cock, look at it in my hand - ,” Lambert was gasping and panting now as Aiden purred in his ear, and looked down at the hand pumping him with a quiet groan; the other was massaging his balls lightly, two fingers occasionally dipping behind to find his sweet spot, “- how about that big heart of yours? The best bit - so full of love, shines through your smile - and your singing voice, perfect - you’re beautiful, Lambert. Ahh, good boy.” He lifted one arm to hold Lambert close through his orgasm, his hand slowing to a gentle stroke to tend him through until his cock stopped twitching. </p><p>“Quite a convincing speech.” Lambert husked, tilting his head back to Aiden’s shoulder. “I almost believe you.”</p><p>“I’m going to keep telling you until you believe it,” Aiden placed a kiss to the side of Lambert’s face. “Between myself and your therapist, we might actually get you to build some self-esteem.” </p><p>“Ahh, and there goes the mood.” Lambert shuffled from the bed and tucked himself away in his boxers. “What’s the plan? I saw there was a gym here, so shall I hang out there while you get your facials and shit?”</p><p>“Hmm. No. You’re coming with me to every treatment.”</p><p>“What?” Lambert blinked.</p><p>“We have a couple’s massage in about twenty minutes, then lunch, and then I’ve got us booked in for a facial and…” Aiden listed off everything he had planned and Lambert stood there mutely until the very end. He understood approximately fifty percent of the words.</p><p>“I’m not - I’ve never had any of that shit. Like - what do - is there anything - ?”</p><p>“You just lay there and enjoy it.”</p><p>“So, let me get this straight. For at least three of those things, someone is going to be touching me all over with oil, <em> next to you, </em> and I’m <em> not </em> meant to get a hardon? And this is meant to be relaxing?” </p><p>Aiden chuckled. “They’ve seen it all before. Go get your swimming shorts on and we can hit the pool at the end. I - I haven’t been swimming in public for some time, so I could use some back up, in fact - for the whole thing, It’s important I take this step though, I’m -.” Aiden disappeared into the bathroom still talking to himself and Lambert realised that, while he was worried about getting a boner, <em> Aiden </em> was allowing strangers to see him shirtless when he’d been anxious about showing his lover the very same. </p><p>Lambert followed him into the bathroom and slid his hands around his sides while he brushed his teeth, watching him in the mirror with gentle, appreciative eyes. “Cool. Looking forward to it.” Aiden grinned so broadly that his eyes crinkled and toothpaste fell down his chin; Lambert gave him one final squeeze with a kiss to the back of the shoulder, before heading out to get ready.</p><p>The last time Lambert had been in a stately home like this, it had been to run counter-terrorism drills in the unlikely event that someone should get close enough to a member of state. There was a marked difference between sprinting through Balmoral with a C8 in a tactical vest and being hauled around in a dressing gown by a verbose, pretty lawyer with a love for aromatherapy oils. Eskel would probably have something to say about the paintings and the architecture, but Lambert just gazed around in bewilderment. Although he was still dubious, Lambert stayed quiet as Aiden discussed oils with the masseuse, and even when he clambered awkwardly onto the table - <em> there was no way to do that and keep your dignity, for fuck’s sake </em> - but reached across to bind his fingers around Aiden’s hands when he caught a slight glimmer of trepidation. “You alright?”</p><p>“All good, kitten.” But the simple touch had eased him, and Aiden kept hold of Lambert’s hand even as he closed his eyes with a quiet hum of contentment.</p><p>
  <em> Right. So this was going to take eighty minutes. What am I going to think about for eighty minutes? That music’s annoying. Hippie pan flutes. They better be eating my fucking food and not ordering shitty take away, I swear if I see a single tub of leftover szechuan chicken I’m going to lose my shit, ahh - okay, that feels… alright. Fuck… Christ, shit… right, okay, really - </em>
</p><p>And then Lambert proceeded to melt as expert hands worked down from his neck to the soles of his feet. There were areas of tension that he hadn’t even known about, and as they popped and disintegrated, he felt increasingly <em> heavy </em> and spaced <em> . </em> At one point, the quiet music, the subtle scents and the sound of gentle, even breathing next to him must have lulled him to sleep, because the next thing he knew Aiden was stroking the backs of his fingers down his face to wake him up. “Hey, welcome back.”</p><p>“What - ? Oh shit, did I waste it?” </p><p>“How do you feel?” Aiden tied the belt of his dressing gown.</p><p>Lambert moved his hands beneath his chest and pushed up. His legs were a little shaky, and his head swam briefly as he stood upright, but everything felt loose and… <em> soft? </em>It wasn't the harsh ache of a sport's massage - he'd experienced plenty of those as a rugby player when in the army - but a floaty ease. He’d never felt the urge to smile stupidly and nap more strongly than he did at that moment, so... “Amazing.”</p><p>“Then definitely not wasted. Come on, let’s grab some lunch.”</p><p>The food was good, and Lambert told Aiden so when he was subtly prodded for his opinion, although he would have cooked the venison a little longer to better absorb the taste of the red wine. He sat in the dining room basking in a quiet euphoria, and realised he must <em> look </em> dazed because Aiden kept grinning across at him. Lambert noticed eventually and tilted his head, “What?</p><p>“Nothin’. You just look soft and ruffled. Love it.” Aiden beamed.</p><p>“Pfft,” he sat up - with a huge amount of fucking effort if he was honest - and picked up the glass of questionable looking juice; it was mostly green with a few bits of red in it. <em> Some kind of poncy wellbeing shit. Fine whatever. </em>He took a single swig and then spat it back into the glass with an undignified splutter. “That… is fucking horrific.”</p><p>“Cucumber, kale, pomegranates...” Read off the menu.</p><p>“So they blended my salad. Great, c’mon. Let’s go get the rest of this crap done.”</p><p>The rest of the day was not as cringeworthy as Lambert expected. In fact, he <em> enjoyed </em> it. The therapists were all professional and skilled, and he couldn’t quite get over how soft his beard was after the facial. Neither could Aiden, who kept running his fingers through it at every given opportunity, scratching his nails along the lighter stubble with a happy sigh. Lambert didn’t mind. He wasn’t proud or sensitive about his masculinity; it was nice to watch Aiden unwind and become less self conscious as the day went on, and if he needed to have seven tons of weird looking slime put on his skin for it to happen, then what the hell. However, when they started to get the <em> wax </em> out, with accompanying spatulas and strips, Lambert immediately leapt out of the chair and grabbed his towel.</p><p>“Not in a million fucking years, Aiden.” </p><p>“Even if I promise to kiss it better?”</p><p>Lambert went the darkest shade of red he’d ever turned. “You could worship my ass like it’s the second fucking coming, but <em> that </em> is going <em> nowhere </em> near it.” </p><p>A quiet sigh, and Aiden fluttered a hand at him. “Fine, fine. There isn’t much there anyway. We’ll talk about it later. Go wait by the pool.”</p><p>As the sun began to set and the majority of the other guests retired to the common rooms for drinks, they finished in the jacuzzi.  Aiden pulled Lambert across his lap, knees tucked against the wall either side of his hips. Hidden beneath the bubbles, Aiden slipped his hand up the leg of Lambert’s swimming shorts to stroke his cock as they kissed, eventually shifting underneath his thigh, slipping higher until he could tickle soft fingers across Lambert’s balls to his entrance. Lambert growled into his lips, “I have to walk back to the room.”</p><p>“Mmhm. I can’t wait to make love to you. I vote we go back and order room service later.” He pressed a little firmer and Lambert gasped into his mouth. </p><p>There was no choice to be made. Lambert was certain that if they stayed Aiden would have no qualms with making him come in public. And that was just fucking <em> rude. </em>So he staggered from the bath, obscuring himself from the interested eyes of two old ladies swimming breaststroke in the swimming pool, and grabbed his towel and dressing gown. Aiden followed at a more sedate pace, and when he stepped into the bedroom, Lambert was already on the bed on all fours, swimming shorts and dressing gown discarded. “Right. I’m ready.”</p><p>Aiden chuckled. “Yes, I can see. Give me a minute.” Still leisurely, he shrugged out of his own gown and shimmied his trunks off, before crouching down by his suitcase. He’d brought some toys with them, but they were for later. Tonight was about making it close, sensual and special, so he approached the bed with a bottle of lubricant only. Lambert had been a good boy while he was away in Dubai and had presented his test results like a trophy upon Aiden’s return, so there would be nothing between him and Lambert’s gorgeous body. “I am more than willing to breed you like a dog later, kitten, but for this one I want to see your face. Roll over.” </p><p>With a tentative glance cast over his shoulder, Lambert flopped over onto his backside and Aiden climbed between his legs. When their lips met, any anxiety Lambert had been feeling evaporated instantly, and he slipped his hands around Aiden’s face with a soft moan. He could hear the pop of the bottle cap and seconds later a slick hand stroked up his cock from root to tip in long, lazy tugs. “Lay back - keep your knees up - good - fuck, you have no idea how much I've wanted to touch you like this - ."</p><p>Lambert panted as slick fingers stroked around his rim, feet lifting slightly off the bed to present better access; he knew how he liked it and was keen for Aiden to get there. He didn’t mind being slutty or needy in front of him - <em> fuck </em>, it just made it better - and the toothy grin on Aiden’s face gave away his enjoyment too, so Lambert flexed and squirmed to his heart’s content. Aiden slipped a finger inside, rewarded with another blissed whimper, and a slight arch of the back. </p><p>"Love how noisy you are. Don't hold back." He moved his hand slowly, adding more lube when he pushed a second finger inside and Lambert began to relax around them. The first brush across his prostate made him clench in surprise, but he was soon rocking into each passing caress with low moans. Aiden whispered softly, "Hmm. Bet you could come just like this, couldn't you?" </p><p>"Yeah, so good," Lambert gripped the top of the bed sheets as Aiden moved his fingers a little faster, the slick of the lubricant accompanied by increasingly loud gasps as Lambert’s cock twitched and dribbled precome across his stomach. “Aiden - fuck me, or I’m gonna’ - .’</p><p>The waiting had been worth it. Lambert was flushed and eager; he lifted his knees further, thighs spread to encourage fingers inside him to push deeper. Not a single trace of timidity or pain. His body was tensing in excitement only, muscles pliant as Aiden teased him. He could do this all night and not get bored, but Lambert was practically shaking with need. Aiden withdrew his fingers slowly and coated his cock before he rose up onto his knees; Lambert immediately wrapped his legs around his waist. “Ready, kitten?”</p><p>“Y - yeah, take me."</p><p>Aiden slipped his head just inside his rim and Lambert latched onto his shoulders and gasped, "More, ah-ahh, yes - .”  His grip eased when Aiden pushed deeper and leaned over for a kiss. It felt a thousand times <em> better </em> than the toys; Aiden was hot and hard, and even the simple press of his balls against the soft skin of Lambert’s cleft was an added sensation that Lambert relished; the heavy presence of his body, firm and strong, was overwhelming. Lambert wrapped him tighter while they kissed and he adjusted to the thick cock stretching him. <em> Wanted to stay like this forever. </em></p><p>“Mm, gotta’ loosen your grip a little. Gonna’ make you feel really good now.” Aiden pulled away from the kiss to murmur in his ear, and then nipped his throat when his head fell back. The first few rocks of his hips were slow and indulgent. Aiden allowed his eyes to slip closed as he enjoyed the sensation of Lambert’s body yielding to him when he thrust forward again. He detached Lambert’s fingers from his arm, wound his own through them and pressed the hand into the bed above Lambert’s head. He leaned over him, pushing his hips into a better angle so he could begin a swift, deep penetration that would hit the sweet spot every time. Lambert’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, his free hand weaving up through Aiden’s hair in search of something to anchor him in reality. Aiden whispered into his neck and chest in between kisses, “You’re so tight - so keen - I love you, Lambert - want you to come for me -.”</p><p>“Aah-aah, Aiden, feels so good - harder, pl - plea - se - fuck, aahh.” Lambert tried to lift and push himself into it, but in the end it was so overwhelming that all he could do was cling on for dear life; he squeezed the hand pressed into his and greedily accepted the kisses that found their way to his lips. Aiden took his cock into a firm grip and worked him over until he came with a shuddering gasp. “F - fuck, yeah, yeah.” Because the pace didn’t relent even as his body shook, and Aiden kept thrusting deep until he finished hard, with a quiet, satisfied groan.</p><p>“Holy shit.” Lambert murmured into Aiden’s shoulder, his eyes closed, as the aftershocks faded and Aiden draped over him.</p><p>“Yeah.” Aiden pulled back and placed soft kisses down Lambert’s chest to the smattering of come on his stomach, which he lapped through before flopping over onto his back. “Food, then more?” </p><p>“Food then more.” Lambert stared blearily at the ceiling. <em> Definitely more. </em>All night. Endlessly.</p><p>***</p><p>“So, you’re going to tie me up, shove that up my ass, and you think it’ll break me enough to beg you to come?” Lambert folded his arms across his chest and looked down at the prostate massager with a raised eyebrow. “You know I went through interrogation training, right? I can last thirty-six hours in agony, at least.”</p><p>“Oh, kitten, this won’t be agony though, will it?” </p><p>It was Sunday evening. They had one more day at the spa tomorrow before catching a late afternoon flight back to Blighty. Now that Lambert was feeling less sore after a day of rest, Aiden wanted to play a bit more. His bag of tricks was full of silk rope, a collar with a leash, a few vibrators, a gag - Lambert wasn’t a fan - and more bottles of lube than he should really have been allowed to carry through customs. Lambert huffed and pulled his t-shirt over his head. “Fine. C’mon then. Still think you’ll be disappointed.” He sat down on the chaise longue where Aiden had indicated and put his wrists together above his head.</p><p>Aiden took his time to bind Lambert’s arms up, almost like it was part of the fun for him, and Lambert watched his little smile as he worked. An easy calm settled over him and he relaxed into the cushions of the couch. The rope wrapped down to Lambert’s elbows, pressing snuggly against his skin, before lashing his wrists together on the curve of the armrest. Considering Aiden was a civvie, the knots were actually quite impressive and when Lambert tugged, there was no give. <em> There was no give. </em> He swallowed and tried again. <em> That was... </em> hmm. He dropped his legs down either side of the couch and Aiden perched on the cushion between them. “So, this bit will go really deep, this bit will sit against your prostate, and <em> this </em> bit will go against your taint.” </p><p>“Right. And it’s remote controlled?”</p><p>“Mmhm.”</p><p>“And what are you going to do?”</p><p>“Well, I thought I’d watch the Imitation Game.”</p><p>“You’re so rock n’ roll.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Aiden grinned. “Legs up.” </p><p>Lambert lifted his feet off the floor and pressed his heels to the two edges of the chaise lounge as Aiden’s fingers circled his hole. It was a little bit tender from Aiden’s athletic performance through the night and he was grateful for the extra care. <em> What did he expect? </em>He was treated like a precious object whenever he was in Aiden’s care. He grimaced and tilted his head back as the toy was pushed inside, and then jolted when it settled over his prostate. “Aah, alright. Yeah. Y - you got it set right.” He was already hard and Aiden stroked a palm up the underside of his cock. </p><p>“Remember your word?”</p><p>“<em> Yes </em> .” Petulant, with an eye roll. Aiden sat back against the opposite arm of the couch and clicked the vibrator on. Lambert went taut immediately, hands yanking down on the bindings as every muscle in his torso clenched. “Haa - aahh, <em> ho - ly, f - fuck.” </em>With three points of stimulation, it was potentially the most intense thing he’d ever felt.</p><p>“Mmm, beautiful,” Aiden leaned over, hands braced either side of Lambert’s waist, and swirled his tongue down Lambert’s chest to his nipple. He kept a palm against Lambert’s cock, learning the rhythms and tells of his body. As soon as he felt the first twitches of a climax, he withdrew completely and sat back, remote clicked off. </p><p>Lambert panted. “That - all you got?” <em> He fucking hoped so because otherwise his brain was going to leak out his ears. </em></p><p>“Just getting started. Waiting for you to plateau again.”</p><p>As soon as Lambert settled - Aiden took a moment to study what <em> that </em> looked like; relaxing of muscles, reduction in the redness of his skin, calmness of breathing - he switched the toy on again and took hold of his cock to work him back towards orgasm. Once again, he waited until Lambert’s balls pulled close to his body and his cock began to flick against his fingers before he removed all stimulation and sat back. By the third time, Lambert was straining against the ropes and sweat was forming on his neck and chest. The night was <em> warm </em> anyway, but he knew the heat that flushed Lambert’s skin was of his own making.</p><p>“Ready to beg me yet, kitten?”</p><p>“N - no.” </p><p>“Hmm. Okay.” Aiden was hard. He couldn’t wait for Lambert to cave, but the waiting was just as delicious as the end game. He stroked his fingers over Lambert’s thighs and watched him twitch; the beginnings of overstimulation. His cock had leaked precome on his stomach and his pupils were wide as they stared down at Aiden’s hand. The moment the vibrator turned on again he squirmed in agonised pleasure, barely lasting a minute before his body drew close to its peak. </p><p>It took twice more. Of Aiden’s hands caressing his sweat-soaked, flushed skin; of his body shuddering and writhing through the vibrations of the massager primed in all the <em> right </em> locations; of <em> denial, </em> before Lambert finally blurted it out, his chest heaving with wrecked pants. “Aiden, please, let me come. Please. I can’t - this is killing me - I - .” </p><p>“Hmm. I thought you said thirty-six hours? I was ready for the long game.”</p><p>Because his sub had been a petulant little shit and dismissed it all, Aiden did it once more. Lambert cried out when the tremors pulsed up through his body. It was so good it almost <em> hurt. </em> But <em> again, </em> Aiden cut him off just at the right - or the wrong - time and he half sobbed when his orgasm fell out of his grasp, “Aiden, <em> please… </em>”</p><p>“You won’t roll your eyes at me again, will you?”</p><p>“No. I promise.”</p><p>“And you’ll try things before dismissing them with bravado, won’t you?”</p><p>“Y - yes, please, just fuck me. Make me come. I can’t - .”</p><p>“Beg me for exactly what you want.” Featherlight fingers fluttered over the crease of Lambert’s thighs, tickling very lightly over his balls, skipping his cock to settle on his navel.</p><p>“Your fat cock in me, please - I need it - <em> fuck. </em> I - need it so bad.” Lambert wasn’t even aware of the words he was using, he just <em> needed </em> release. And when Aiden gently tugged the toy out he half sobbed in relief. Then his hands were gone and he was stooping down to add a little bit of slack to the ropes.</p><p>“Up on your knees, bend over. I’m going to breed your tight little ass so you know <em> exactly </em> who owns you now.”</p><p>“Y - yeah, please.” Lambert threw himself over onto his front and presented his ass, elbows braced against the slant of the couch arm and knees on the edges. There was no build up, Aiden thrust straight in and Lambert cried out in ecstasy. His hole - tender, used - clenched around Aiden’s cock even as he withdrew for another punishing penetration that made Lambert see stars. “Aiden - fuck, fuck, yes, fuck, yes.”</p><p>Aiden gripped Lambert’s hips and then his thighs to bring him back with force, revelling in the gasped cries of wrecked pleasure his lover howled to the room as his overstimulated body staggered finally to its climax. Every muscle shuddered and seized and Aiden fucked him through it until he was quivering. Watching Lambert crumble into bliss was enough, and Aiden filled him with a grunt, head back and eyes closed as he enjoyed this final act of claiming. It was primal and base, he knew, but with a willing lover he could allow himself the small pleasure. The withdrawal of his cock brought his seed with it, and he hummed appreciatively, “Speak to me, kitten.”</p><p>“Mmph.” Lambert huffed, completely spaced.</p><p>Aiden took in a deep breath to find his centre again. Calm, collected, in control. He needed to be, because now he had to ensure Lambert was cared for. Gentle hands released the ropes and guided Lambert to the bed; he pulled water from the mini fridge and made him drink it, followed by a sugary tea. While the kettle was boiling, he cleaned his lover reverently with a damp towel, shushing the quiet mewl of protest as he paid attention to tender areas. “Don’t be proud now. Let me. Good.”</p><p>He cuddled Lambert as he floated, stroking his hands through his hair and speaking softly to him. When he came back, they talked about it all from start to finish. Lambert was embarrassed about using the term ‘fat cock’, but Aiden laughed it off with him. They both enjoyed the ropes, although the toy got a bit uncomfortable after a while, so perhaps not something to be used for an extended period again. “Do you enjoy it, Lambert? Giving me control like that. Because if you don’t, you need to say, and we won’t do it.”</p><p>“No, I - ,” Lambert squirmed a bit, but took a deep breath full of Aiden’s warm scent. “I do. I like it. Never felt more… at peace than when you’re - when I just - .” A quiet, irritable huff as his mind failed to cobble the correct vocabulary together, but Aiden seemed to understand and just rubbed a hand down his back.</p><p>“If it ever stops being good, please tell me. I never want to hurt you. Not ever.”</p><p>“I know,” Lambert hummed. “Love you.”</p><p>***</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">Aiden (you), Eskel, Geralt</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 6:03 AM</span><br/>
<span class="greply">Morning, gentlemen.</span><br/>
<span class="grouptext">Geralt</span><br/>
<span class="text">What has he done?</span><br/>
<span class="greply">Nothing. He's thoroughly enjoying himself. Has been very well behaved.</span><br/>
<span class="grouptext">Eskel</span><br/>
<span class="text">This surprises me. Any reason for the 6am text?</span><br/>
<span class="greply">I need to get your blessing. I'm going to ask him to marry me.</span><br/>
<span class="grouptext">Geralt</span><br/>
<span class="text">Are you concussed?</span><br/>
<span class="grouptext">Eskel</span><br/>
<span class="text">What Geralt means is - do you truly understand what you're signing up for?</span><br/>
<span class="greply">I do. I understand every facet of the family I'm joining.</span><br/>
<span class="grouptext">Geralt</span><br/>
<span class="text">You're not marrying me. You're marrying Lambert. Do you require medicating?</span><br/>
<span class="grouptext">Eskel</span><br/>
<span class="text">Geralt and I give our blessing. Geralt has a hangover because he thought two bottles of red wine were a good idea.</span><br/>
<span class="greply">Thank you. Wish me luck.</span><br/>
<span class="grouptext">Geralt</span><br/>
<span class="text">You're going to need it.</span><br/>
<span class="grouptext">Eskel</span><br/>
<span class="text">Good luck.</span><br/>
</p>
</div><p>***</p><p>For their final afternoon in Belfast, they decided to go for a walk down the coastline. In a few hours they’d hop into a taxi and catch their flight. In shorts, t-shirts and flip flops, they strolled through the warm sand, fingers loosely laced together. The day was warm and close as all the previous ones had been, but the ocean breezes kept the temperature pleasant. “Marks out of ten?” Aiden broke the easy quiet, and Lambert cast him a smirk.</p><p>“What are we marking here? ‘Cause my ass is requesting a bigger scale.”</p><p>“You’re so uncouth,” Aiden grinned. “The spa, the hotel.”</p><p>“Solid seven. Got ogled by some old ladies, and my life flashed before my eyes when those wax strips came out. I’m going to need at least ten years more counselling. Food was good, massages were good. Company was,” he cast a quick glance to his left, “pretty good too.”</p><p>“A solid seven, well, some room to improve. I do love a long term goal.” Aiden paused and gazed out across the calm ocean stretched out towards the horizon. “I would… uh, like to visit lots of places like this with you. All over the world. For many years.”</p><p>“I’d be game.” Lambert grinned and then followed Aiden’s eyes out across the ocean. “Maybe we could go surfing next?"</p><p>“Oh, good,” Aiden tugged the small box from his pocket out of sight and took a deep breath; he never thought he’d ever get the opportunity to do this. Not as a gay man, then not after several failed relationships and finally not after the car accident had scarred him. But <em> this </em> man. This man made him happier than any other, and he’d done so without being false, without hiding any part of himself, and had accepted Aiden, scarred and imperfect, without reservation. “Lambert…” He tugged his hand until his lover turned, and then sank down to his knee. “...I mean it. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?” </p><p>Lambert blinked. “Are you taking the piss?”</p><p>“N - no, look,” Aiden showed him the ring in the box. “I love you. And I want to keep loving you forever.”</p><p>“Hmm. Got your phone and wallet on you?”</p><p>“No. I left them in the hotel room.” Aiden’s forehead creased. <em> Was this going well - ? </em></p><p>“Good.” Lambert took the ring calmly and slipped it onto his left hand. “Fits. Yeah, guess that’d be cool.” And then, without warning, he grabbed Aiden, threw him over his shoulder and sprinted into the sea. Aiden squawked and wriggled, but there was no escaping the tight fireman’s lift. Once he was deep enough, Lambert body-slammed into the water. Aiden thrashed and spluttered to the surface, but was soon wheezing with laughter because Lambert erupted out of the waves and threw his hands towards the sky. “Hallelujah, motherfucker, take me to church!” He punched the air with one fist. “We’re gettin’ fuckin’ married. Wooh!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. In The Dog House</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “Run - Geralt - leave.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Blood erupted out of Vesemir’s mouth and dripped through his greying beard. The hole in his chest was fatal. He had minutes. Perhaps seconds. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “No. You’re not dying alone.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Impudent - pup.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But gloved fingers tightened in Geralt’s - thank you - and then he was gone. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Geralt could feel the blood running down his face and it dripped down his arm, but he was still conscious and mobile, which meant he was now in command. A brief glance over his shoulder and he saw Eskel lying in the sand. His heart only started beating again when Bear threw himself over onto his front and Lambert’s voice crackled through the coms. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “C’mon, Bear. I’ve got you.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Get him out of here. Go.” Geralt could see vehicles on the horizon through the smoke. His decision had been made. If he turned and retreated now, those vehicles would catch up with his team and mow them all down. If he stayed, then he bought Eskel and Lambert enough time to reach the TIGR waiting for them on the roadside. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Wolf, come on. Not leaving y--.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Go now or I’ll have you court martialed. That’s a fucking a order.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Geralt could hear the pain in Lambert’s voice as he panted through the coms. He was injured too. Another glance over his shoulder, and he caught sight of their youngest team member hauling Eskel from the ground and running through the debris. Good.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He got through two magazines of ammunition, and then they were in close quarters. Geralt yanked the knife from the back of his belt and took down three more insurgents before he was forced to his knees, the barrel of a handgun pressed to his forehead. He stared into the eyes of his murderer. Someone shouted from behind him and his world went black. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Geralt woke up in agony. </em>
</p><p>***</p><p>Eskel and Geralt woke during the night a lot.</p><p>Quite often it was a quick trip to the loo before they were snuggled back in place next to Jaskier, but sometimes it was more. <em> Sometimes </em> they didn’t return. Those times were when Jaskier slowly crept out from beneath the duvet, leaving one lover warm and safe, to tiptoe out of the room to find the other. The first few times it was Eskel. It’d only ever happened a few times before Eskel’s breakdown, and perhaps Jaskier had just been naive, inattentive or unaware - he hated himself for it - but now it happened at least once a week. Eskel was fairly easy to soothe; he paced and fidgeted, so it was a matter of coaxing him into a hug on the sofa and falling back to sleep with him. They discussed poetry, music or just their loved ones, and occasionally Eskel might talk about what had woken him in the first place. It was usually anxiety. All consuming and frantic. One time he’d asked Jaskier a question that nearly broke his heart. <em> Why do you love me? </em> Hopeless, and desperate. So Jaskier listed every reason. Every. Single. One. In between kisses and while his big teddy bear was sprawled across his lap.</p><p>And then one night, Jaskier’s eyes opened to find Eskel curled up contentedly next to him, but Geralt nowhere to be found. Like always, he slipped silently from the room and peeked over the banister of the mezzanine below to find his escapee. Geralt didn’t pace. He sat. With his face against one palm, his other forearm slanted across his thigh, and his hand shaking. Jaskier approached slowly, but he was careful not to sneak; he made noises on the landing, and then as he dropped down the stairs, until he was a couple of metres from the sofa. “Geralt?”</p><p>“You should be asleep, Jaskier.” His voice sounded thick and hoarse. Like someone who’d just spent an hour crying. But Geralt didn’t seem like the <em> type </em> to cry. He lifted his head and sniffed, gazing into the empty black of the television screen. A television screen he’d spent several months staring at because he just didn’t have the motivation or desire to do anything else. It had taken Eskel and a professional to point out that he was suffering from depression, which was now beginning to border on severe, and then several more sessions for him to accept it himself. The final confirmation had been a list of symptoms presented to him in a leaflet: continuous low mood, feeling hopeless, low self-esteem, guilt-ridden, irritable and intolerant of others, no motivation or interest in things, not getting any enjoyment out of life. It was galling to see the feelings in your head dissected on paper like that; even more so when there was then no way to deny them. His colleagues had passed a lot of it off as ‘that’s just Geralt’, because Geralt had <em> always </em> been less tolerant of people, he had <em> always </em> appeared quiet and standoffish. Things like depression often went undiagnosed for people like him, apparently.</p><p>“So should you,” Jaskier replied softly as he found himself a seat on the sofa. He paused for a moment before he acted. The Geralt he spent time with during the daylight hours was still asleep. This one was fragile and unpredictable. The hand he reached out was tentative, and he brushed his fingers over the back of the one that shook by Geralt’s knee. “Was it a bad dream?”</p><p>Geralt sat up and looked at Jaskier pensively. Blue eyes were bloodshot, his skin grey. He was clearly considering whether he should say anything. “This isn’t your burden to carry.”</p><p>“If I am ever going to be able to love you in the absolute way you deserve, then we need to make sure we’re sharing everything with each other,” Jaskier shifted a little bit closer, fingers gripping a little firmer, now that Geralt hadn’t immediately spooked. “Tell me what you can, and then the other stuff might come a bit later.”</p><p>The hand that wrapped his was warm. <em> Real. </em> And Geralt stared at Jaskier’s fingers for some time before he spoke. “It was the last operation we did. The one where it all went wrong,” he looked down at the coffee table. “I revisit that a lot. More than anything else. The moment when I thought Eskel was dead, and - ,” he swallowed, “watching our patrol leader die. He was like a father to me.”</p><p>“Vesemir.” Jaskier paused. “Eskel doesn’t really talk about it much. It’s like - .”</p><p>“ - he blames himself.” Geralt finished for him. “No one else does. He was trying to call off a drone strike. Trying to save innocent lives. There were children in the building. We had our man. It was so needless.” </p><p>“Do you blame yourself?”</p><p>“No,” Geralt leaned back with a sigh. “Death is part of war. That’s why they only send expendable people. The day a member of parliament lifts a rifle and marches in to fight a war they started, I will know society is finally fair and just.” </p><p>“You’re not expendable, Geralt.”</p><p>“Have you ever heard the term ‘we don’t negotiate with terrorists’?” Geralt tapped the armrest.</p><p>“Yes. In my head it’s always said with an American twang. It’s - I think it borders on xenophobic, to be honest, but I can’t help it.”</p><p>“Hm. It’s not just an American thing. That was the British response when my captors demanded a prisoner exchange. We don’t negotiate with terrorists. My death warrant. They didn’t see a father, or a friend, or a husband - not that I was by that point - they saw an asset that had fallen into enemy hands. An enemy they couldn’t acknowledge as a nation state, so - ,” he trailed off. “Now tell me I’m not expendable.” </p><p>The silence was heavy, and all Jaskier could do was hold Geralt’s hand. He didn’t have the words. How could you comfort a man that had been abandoned to die by his nation? A man that had been prepared to sacrifice <em> everything</em>, and then been welcomed back with hollow platitudes and pieces of gold and silver? There was nothing. Perhaps if he was older, or wiser, he’d have the prose, or the… wisdom. Finally, he could only mumble, “I’m sorry.” </p><p>Geralt’s hand lifted from his then and carded back through his hair, pushing messy strands from his face, before curling around the back of his neck and pulling him close. “Don’t apologise for the evils of man, Jaskier. That is definitely not a burden for you to carry.”</p><p>“If every person on the planet refused to carry it, Geralt, then who is responsible?” Jaskier paused. “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil, is for good men to do nothing. I hear Eskel say that a lot.”</p><p>“Often attributed to Edmund Burke, although that’s dubious,” Geralt murmured. “He advocated slow, managed revolution while the French were beheading their aristocracy. I’m more of a Thomas Paine acolyte.” Jaskier glanced at him, one eyebrow raised in question, and Geralt smirked. “Burn it all to the ground.”</p><p>“I didn’t have you down as a big fan of the nineteenth century.”</p><p>“Hm. I wasn’t. I liked history, but mainly the medieval period. And then this handsome tosser comes along and reads me Wordsworth and because I’m the kind of person to become hyper-focused and obsessive with things, I started reading everything I could get my hands on. It only got worse when he started his degree, and I used to peek at his reading list so I could at least come across as marginally intelligent.”</p><p>“But you <em> never </em> pitch in to the conversations. You could be fighting my corner against him, and yet you leave me to crash and burn, occasionally smirking when he gets all passionate and Dead Poet Society-ee.” Jaskier grumbled in mock outrage.</p><p>“Hm,” Geralt smiled; a small, soft expression accompanied by a lessening of tension in his shoulders. “I know when I’m outgunned. Better to approach on alternative lines of attack.”</p><p>“Not having that. Next time he starts waxing poetic - literally - I’m tagging you in.” Jaskier leaned against Geralt’s chest, head on his collarbone as his hand slipped over his abdomen in slow, gentle circles. His wolf was relaxing more, no longer shaking, which was a good sign. They might get back to sleep before sunrise. “Why didn’t you retire with Eskel?”</p><p>A long pause followed, and Geralt spent it watching Jaskier’s hand progress over the slight folds of his stomach. <em> Folds </em> because he’d been too heavy on the chocolate and the gym was only now starting to yield results. There was still some definition there, but… sue him, he was nearly middle-aged. “Many reasons. I wasn’t ready to face the after. It was much easier to try and forget, than to - deal with everything.”</p><p>“What they did to you.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Is it helping? All the therapy and… everything else?”</p><p>“I feel like they’re picking each scar open again to find out what it has to say. I’m not even sure myself, and sometimes I don’t want to -,” Geralt swallowed, and Jaskier felt him tense, “- sometimes I don’t want to listen.” There was a reason he’d buried it. And he didn’t <em> care </em> about all the lines they drew between that and his other symptoms. It <em> belonged </em> beneath the thousands of layers of rationalisations and repression, because he was worried that if he <em> looked</em>, it would shatter him. And he <em> couldn’t </em> be that man. He <em> wouldn’t</em>. </p><p>Jaskier sighed and nuzzled closer, now content that Geralt wasn’t going to push him away and was, in fact, finding some comfort in his proximity. He always made sure he wore his softest PJ bottoms, and used his nicest lotions, because he had identified how readily Geralt responded to soft things on his skin. Even now he was running one of those big hands up and down Jaskier’s arm, his touch light. Jaskier sensed his tiredness, and his desire to leave the past alone; they both watched the sunlight peek above the roofs of the industrial estate. “The puppies at my parents are ready to pick up in a couple of weekends’ time. There’s one small development.”</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>“They’re not pure spaniel,” Jaskier bit his lower lip. “They’re, uh, cockapoos.”</p><p>“What the fuck is a cockapoo?”</p><p>“Half poodle, half spaniel. But you can’t back out now! Mum’s delayed getting them homed so you can pick the one you want.”</p><p>Geralt rolled his eyes. “Fine. Come on, if we’re early enough, we can tag team Eskel before he wakes up enough to gain the upper hand.” And his morning wood was a thing of fucking beauty. Jaskier scrambled from the sofa to conduct the first bit of reconnaissance, and Geralt followed at a more sedate pace, happy to leave his memories in the darkness of the night.</p><p>***</p><p>“Bloody hell, Jaskier,” Eskel blinked at the sprawling estate before them as the automatic gate creaked open. The house looked like something off the set of Downton Abbey; all neo-classical architecture and white paint. “I knew Pankratz was well off, but this is something else.” </p><p>Geralt smirked. “If we play our cards right, we might become kept men in a few years, Eskel.”</p><p>“Ha! I’m still working on getting disinherited, so don’t get your hopes up.” Jaskier flopped back into the rear seat. He hadn’t been looking forward to this bit. It was only fair that they collected the puppy, and a visit was long overdue according to his mother, but <em> Alfred </em> was home and that spelled literal disaster. </p><p>They parked the Audi out front, Eskel making a joke about a valet taking his keys, only to be thoroughly dumbfounded when a man in a suit <em> did </em> offer to take his car to the stableyard. “N - no, it’s fine. We won’t be long.” He received a look that told him his thirty grand car was a bit of an eyesore, but would be tolerated, and followed Jaskier through the front door with a shake of the head.</p><p>“Jules!” A woman in her late forties - potentially early fifties if one was feeling uncharitable - approached with her arms open wide. She was relatively slender, with thin extremities; her brunette hair was beginning to show the first few wisps of grey, and she didn’t look like she’d been sleeping particularly well.</p><p>“Hey mum, how’re you?” Jaskier squeezed her tightly, the concern clearly evident on his face.</p><p>“Oh, fine, darling. <em> Fine. </em> I’ll be so glad when we get these puppies off to their new owners,” her eyes turned to Jaskier’s two silent companions. “Speaking of!” She swooped in, immediately grabbed Eskel and hauled him to her for a tight embrace. Thoroughly blind-sided, Eskel almost fell over and tentatively lifted his arms to pat her lightly on the back. “Oh, Eskel. It’s so good to finally <em> meet </em> you. Oh dear, you’re so much <em> more </em> than you looked on the webcam. I mean -,” she patted him down, her hands finally alighting on his chest, and Eskel flushed. She didn’t notice. “<em>Well. </em> Shall we go and see the puppies? They’re in a pen in the kitchen. I’ll put the kettle on.”</p><p>They walked through the huge foyer with its central, spiralling staircase into an open, modern kitchen, with its white granite surfaces and brushed steel appliances. The puppies were in a large pen in the dining area, asleep. As soon as they <em> sensed </em> people though, they leapt to their feet and started yipping, whining and howling for attention. Geralt was there <em> instantly</em>, his hands inside the pen to be nibbled, licked and chewed as five bundles of fluff galloped over to him. His grin practically split his face in half. They were all brownish-red in colour, with wavy coats and huge paws they used to attack Geralt.</p><p>“So, there are three girls and two boys. We haven’t named any of them yet, so that will be down to you. All vaccinated, ready to go, of course.” Mrs Pankratz - for that was what you always called your partner’s mother; her full title, with all airs and graces - toiled around the kitchen. They agreed to stay for lunch, and Eskel managed to haul Geralt away from the puppies long enough to eat some sandwiches, grapes and a slice of cheese. It was as they were working their way through the bowl of Ready Salted Walkers’ crisps that Alfred Pankratz finally made an appearance. He stopped dead on the threshold of the kitchen and eyed the two men sitting at his breakfast bar. Eventually, he decided that he would not be a pariah in his own house and walked towards the coffee machine.</p><p>“Good afternoon.” He glanced first at Eskel, then Geralt, and finally, almost reluctantly, at <em> his own son. </em>“Julian. You’re looking well.”</p><p>Jaskier only smiled tightly and turned back to his food. </p><p>Pankratz continued, “I didn’t expect to see you, Captain Rivia.”</p><p>“Geralt.” </p><p>“Sorry?”</p><p>“I’m retired, and I’d prefer not to be known by my former rank,” Geralt brushed the crumbs off his fingers. “I wanted to be here to choose our dog.” </p><p>There was a pause, because Alfred had <em> definitely </em> noticed the emphasis on the word ‘our’. He continued to make his coffee slowly as he decided whether to question it further. These civil servant types were all so <em> careful. </em> Calculating their next move down to the smallest detail before they executed it. “I suppose a pet is a very important part of any household.”</p><p>“Family.” Geralt corrected him again, and Eskel cast him a quick, furtive look. <em> This was not the time. </em> His hatred of hypocrites - particularly <em> this </em> hypocrite - sometimes overpowered his better judgement. Even though Eskel was clearly concerned, Jaskier cast Geralt a fond glance and then shifted a hand to stroke Eskel’s leg to reassure him. <em> It was fine. </em> Geralt continued, “Jaskier, Eskel and I are a family. And a pet will be an important part of that.” He left his stool and returned to the pen, kneeling down by the wired mesh to dip his hands back in and make his final decision. His <em> initial </em> choice had been <em> all</em>, but realised Eskel had only agreed to <em> one</em>, so he’d negotiated himself down to a choice between two of the female puppies; they seemed to be the most intelligent, and responsive, so - .</p><p>“Julian, can I speak with you for a moment?” Alfred, having now finished making his coffee, indicated the door of the kitchen, before he departed to his study.</p><p>Jaskier sighed and cast his mother a knowing glance, before slipping from his stool and following. Eskel watched after him and then turned back to the breakfast bar, hands flexing against the granite surface. It was Mrs Pankratz who spoke first, “They’ve never seen eye-to-eye. This is nothing new.”</p><p>“I’m afraid I might not have improved things, Mrs Pankratz.”</p><p>“Oh please, call me Bee.” She smiled brightly as she collected the plates. Moments later, Geralt arrived with a puppy clutched to his chest in one arm. “Ahh, so you’ve chosen. A girl. Have you thought of a name?”</p><p>Geralt hummed. “Roach.” </p><p>“Roach,” Bee repeated, “As in - ?”</p><p>“The fish.” Eskel explained for Geralt, who was busy tilting his away from the enthusiastic licks currently being lavished up his neck and face. Bee just threw her hands up with a sigh and collected the little box she’d put together for them from the pantry cupboard. It contained a blanket with mum’s scent on - she was currently on a walk with one of their employees - a squeaky toy, some treats and a packet of the dry food Roach had been weaned on. Geralt had already raided a Pets at Home and spent a small fortune on beds, toys, treats and training tools, so these items were more to help her settle. </p><p>As they were piling the items back into the crate, Jaskier walked quickly back into the kitchen. His eyes were red but he seemed composed; he forced a smile when he saw Geralt holding the puppy. “Ahh, so we’ve chosen, excellent. Name?”</p><p>“Roach,” his mother chimed in, and he looked momentarily perplexed, before throwing his hands in the air in exactly the same gesture.</p><p>“Well, Mum, it’s quite a drive back to Cambridge and we want to get her settled before dark, so we have to head off.”</p><p>She knew. She could <em> see. </em> And so could Geralt and Eskel. There had been another argument inside the panelled walls of Alfred Pankratz’s study; one that had upset Jaskier enough to cry. Bee pulled him into a hug and pressed a kiss into his hair. “I wish you could stay,” she whispered, releasing him reluctantly. “I love you, Jules.” And then to both Geralt <em> and </em> Eskel. “You two look after my boy. And make sure Sundays continue, please. With you all, of course.” She tapped the puppy - Roach - on the nose and walked them to the front door.</p><p>Geralt sat in the back of the car next to Roach’s travelling crate. They got about halfway down the A10 before he’d pulled her out and wrapped her in her blanket on his lap. She’d been crying, but now she was curled up against Geralt, she slept soundly. Jaskier gazed out at the scenery in silence, but as they passed through Newmarket, Eskel finally asked. “What happened?”</p><p>“He asked me whether I was having sex with both of you,” Jaskier rubbed his eyes. “Not <em> in love</em>, not <em> in a relationship</em>, not <em> dating. </em> He just came out with it, and when I corrected him, he just lost his rag. Told me that one man was bad enough, but two was - that I should - .” A heavy sigh. “So, I told him to fuck off, and he told me to never come back.” </p><p>Eskel growled and rubbed a hand over his face, fingertips dipping into the scars across his cheek. If he’d <em> known</em>, he would’ve stormed in and smacked the fucker in the face. <em> How dare he. </em>“Jaskier, I’m - .”</p><p>“Don’t apologise,” Jaskier gave Eskel a fierce look. “You - both of you - are the best things to ever happen to me. <em> Ever. </em> He can shove his inheritance up his ass for all I care. I won’t be bullied, or made to feel like crap by his bigotry any longer. I was never going to change him. Never going to make up, or alter his perspective. Sometimes quiet revolution isn’t enough. Sometimes you just… need to burn it all down.” Eskel glanced in the rearview mirror and caught Geralt’s eye, but said nothing more.</p><p>***</p><p>Roach rapidly became an integral part of the family. Geralt was <em> infatuated. </em> He spent hours every day training her; obedience first, tricks second. The first night she slept soundly in her crate, but the second she howled until she was hoarse and Geralt paced the bedroom to prevent himself from going to her, “She needs to learn, Eskel.” He’d murmured, as if <em> Eskel </em> was the one currently wearing out the floorboards. Eventually, it had taken the combined efforts of both his lovers to drag him under the duvet and shove some plugs in his ears, but even then he’d squinted at the bedroom door and fidgeted. </p><p>“You must’ve been a nightmare when Ciri was born.” Jaskier growled as he readjusted for the fifth time in ten minutes after being jostled by Geralt turning.</p><p>“He was,” Eskel mumbled, one big arm wrapped around Geralt’s waist to keep him still. “Even when we were on the other side of the world.”</p><p>By the third week, Geralt had trained her to bark at the door when she needed the toilet, sit and give her paw. They were working on rollover, but she kept thinking he was trying to rough house and leapt at him with massive paws at the ready every time. She, in turn, followed Geralt <em> everywhere. </em> Like a small, fluffy shadow. The initial rule had been ‘no Roach on the sofa’. This had turned into ‘Roach on the sofa when she was invited’, before finally transitioning to ‘Roach on the sofa whenever she wants a cuddle’. Eskel was <em> less </em> enamoured; she was so small, and he was so big, so inevitably he was terrified of <em> stepping </em> or <em> sitting </em> on her by accident; he kept her at a distance. When she ate one of his papers, he chased her around the flat, then she accidentally wet herself and he grumbled irritably as he cleaned it up. <em> Why had he agreed to this? </em></p><p>The turning point of their relationship happened very early on a Tuesday morning when Eskel slipped out of bed and headed downstairs to pace out the panic attack he could feel clawing from deep in his chest. Roach stood up in her crate and wagged her tail, head cocked to the side. She expected to be let out. Person equaled freedom. When he didn’t seem to notice her - lost in the darkness of his head - she barked at him. Eskel stopped dead in his tracks and stared. </p><p>She barked again. Then whined. Head tilting the other way.</p><p>He padded over and crouched down by the crate door. The moment it swung open, she trotted out and sat down heavily on her rump. One overly sized paw lifted and settled on his thigh with another soft whine. </p><p>The panic eased as he looked into those big brown eyes. Eskel scooped her up to his chest and carried her into the kitchen for some treats that she gladly gobbled down. With her soft fur in his arms, and the distraction of her adoring licks and yips, the panic faded completely.</p><p>When they rose in the morning, Jaskier and Geralt found Eskel asleep on the sofa with Roach laying on her back on his chest; spaniel ears splayed, legs up in the air. Jaskier took a picture and sent it to Lambert.</p><hr/><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Baby Roach and Grown Up Roach modelled by the magnificent Rusty.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. My Escape</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Before legal proceedings started, Lambert insisted that he speak to his kids first. He wanted to explain to them why, and ask them what they wanted. As a child himself he'd had so many choices taken from him; he was determined that his own children would not suffer the same feelings of powerlessness that came with such a lack of agency. Keira spoke to Aiden for the first time over a Zoom call following written correspondence from his law firm. By the end of the conversation, Zoe and Mason were booked in for a barbecue and sleepover at his house, along with the rest of their extended family.  He invited Alan and Keira, but they politely declined.</p><p>"What if they don't want to come with me?" Lambert sat fretting as they waited in Aiden's car. "What if they're scared, or - ?"</p><p>"Why would they be scared?" Aiden spoke calmly, unbuttoning his shirt sleeves to roll them to his elbows. It was a warm August morning and he’d opted for beige chino shorts and a pale blue shirt, and after much cajoling had convinced Lambert that, as the temperature was now consistently over thirty degrees celsius, jeans were not appropriate leisure wear; dark blue cargo shorts with a white t-shirt had been a happy medium.</p><p>"I - I don't know. What if they don't want to see me after today? What if they decide they hate me, or think I abandoned them? What if they don’t even turn up? What - ?"</p><p>"Lambert," Aiden reached across to stop the tailspin in its tracks, his hand sliding around the back of Lambert's neck. "Calm. Deep breaths." His grip firm, he stroked his thumb across his hairline until some of the tension eased out of squared shoulders. "It's going to be fine. You spoke to them on the Zoom call. Tell me how they seemed."</p><p>"Excited. They want to meet you, and spend time in the garden, play Rugby with Eskel, meet the puppy and Virtute." He hadn't seen them in months. It felt like a lifetime. His chest was tight and his head swam, but Aiden's touch was grounding. He closed his eyes and focused on it until his heart settled. </p><p>"Focus on that. This is your right, and they have a right to their father," Aiden checked his watch. "Let's go. I want to be a tad early. Are you ready?" </p><p>"Yeah. Yeah. Got this." He puffed a few times and stepped out into the street. They were meeting on Parker's Piece just in front of the police station, and Lambert paced with his hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts. His mind was still whirring uncontrollably through a variety of negative emotions, no matter how much he tried to convince himself that today was going to be fine.</p><p>He heard them before he saw them.</p><p>"Look, it's daddy!"</p><p>Lambert turned, eyes wide, and immediately fell to his knees with his arms open. His children sprinted the full distance down the path towards him. Mason smacked into his chest with such force he almost fell over, with Zoe seconds behind. "Oh my - ." His voice broke as he squeezed his eyes shut. He pressed kisses into the dark brown hair the exact shade of his as he lifted them both from the floor and clutched them to his chest. His breath caught and for a moment he shook in disbelief. </p><p>"Daddy, why you crying?" Zoe patted his cheek, worried.</p><p>"Happy tears, baby. Daddy's happy to see you." </p><p>Lambert stopped crying at a very early age. Something that babies did due to neglect, he’d been told; no one came when they cried so what’s the fucking point? One of the reasons he had gone to his children <em> every time </em> they’d cried when he was home. But Lambert <em> hadn’t. </em> Not for nearly thirty years. He didn't cry when his father lost his temper. He didn’t cry when he was taken into custody for the first time as a juvenile. He didn't cry when they took him into care. He didn't cry when he was injured. He didn't cry when Keira kicked him out. He didn't cry when his commanding officers told him his time in the army was done… or else. Hadn't cried once in the five years of alcohol abuse, homelessness or harrowing nightmares. The closest point was after the Skype call that had ended in a broken laptop, but even then they hadn’t <em> quite </em> fallen. </p><p>But now the tears fell like the fucking Niagara, because his babies were finally in his arms after he'd resigned himself to never holding them again. He turned his back to Keira, because she was now only metres away and he couldn't bear her seeing him blubber like an idiot. Aiden saw though, and smiled gently, fighting the urge to wrap himself around his fiance and hold his children between them. It was possibly the first time Aiden had ever felt a stab of paternal instinct in his life. He decided he could get used to it.</p><p>Instead, Aiden walked by, with his A4 envelope in his hand, to introduce himself to their other parent. "A pleasure to meet you face to face." He held out his hand and Keira took it gingerly. "This envelope contains my address, where the children will be spending the day, my phone number and Lambert's phone number. It also has paperwork you need to sign and return in the pre-addressed envelopes." </p><p>It was Lambert's choice to walk over. It hadn't been discussed prior, and Aiden stayed close. His eyes had dried, and he held the hands of his children as he stepped up to Alan. Every part of him wanted to throttle this asshole. For moving into a home that had once been his, for living with his children without insisting on meeting him. But what stories had Keira told? What monster had he been made out to be? Alan certainly looked a little taken aback.</p><p>Keira looked uneasy, "Lambert, now's not the time to - ."</p><p>He held out his right hand while looking Alan dead in the eye. "Lambert." Because his son and his daughter were watching him, and children followed the example of their parents. Lambert would set the example of civility and respect, even if in the back of his head he was kneeing the twat in the bollocks.</p><p>Keira's boyfriend accepted the handshake. "Alan."</p><p>"Thank you for looking after my kids."</p><p>"Uh, you're welcome," he seemed perplexed. This was not the man he'd expected. "Listen, we should've met sooner, but - ."</p><p>Lambert held up his hand. "Yeah. But we didn't. We're meeting now." There was a long moment of silence, and then he sighed, took Zoe's hand when she asked for his and walked away. Mason, now that he'd got over his initial excitement, was too <em> cool </em> to hold dad's hand, but walked close by his side and asked shyly whether Ciri was going to be at the barbecue. </p><p>Aiden waited until Lambert was out of earshot, and then turned a steely gaze back to Keira and Alan. This woman - and by default her partner - had reduced the love of his life to self-destruction; it was a process he’d only become more aware of as the weeks and the months had gone by. Lambert defined himself by his failures - a horrendous habit that therapy was helping him through - but the one that tore him up the most was not being there for his children. Not something he had control over. They would not get away with it. "I'll see you in court." </p><p>***</p><p>Barbecues were serious business. Lambert spent the entire day prior preparing marinades, cutting vegetables and dicing meat. Everything was made from scratch, including the potato salad to which he added a dash of paprika for bite. The sausages he had the butcher make, but insisted on putting together his own burgers. It was the most use Aiden’s kitchen had <em> ever </em> seen, and he couldn’t help but hover nearby to watch. After the third time Aiden had been growled at, he left Lambert to it, and exacted his petty revenge that evening with the help of rope and some beads. Lambert was wrecked in time for Aiden to watch the ten o’clock news with a glass of wine before bed.</p><p>His careful preparation was paying dividends now though. The chicken was cooking in the oven, timed to be ready at the same time as the burgers and sausages sizzling away on the barbecue, and Lambert watched his family mess around in Aiden’s back garden. </p><p>Zoe immediately gravitated towards the animals. It had taken her about five minutes to find Virtute underneath a bush and haul her out, little arms wrapped around her huge bulk. Virtute, being the docile, lazy creature she was, just hung there and purred as she was carried like a stuffed toy. Then Geralt, Eskel, Jaskier and Ciri arrived with the puppy and Zoe’s squeal nearly broke the sound barrier. After one firm bat from Virtute, Roach learned her place <em> at the bottom </em> of the food chain, and was happy to chase Zoe around the garden under the supervision of two big amber eyes.</p><p>As the food cooked, Eskel inevitably found the Rugby ball kicked out into the middle of the lawn. The game devolved rapidly into Eskel-buckeroo, and Lambert looked up from the burgers as Aiden called out to him. “Lambert, Geralt - anyone. This is just - how is this man not professional?” Aiden had hopped up on Eskel’s back in an attempt to bring him down; Mason wrapped around one leg, while Jaskier clung on desperately to the other, trailing across to the floor as his prey continued to walk steadily forward. Ciri had tried to take the arm holding the Rugby ball, but was just hanging off of it helplessly.</p><p>Lambert laughed. “He nearly was at one point. Hey, Geralt,” he glanced across to where Geralt lay sprawled in a camping chair, head back, face turned into the sun with dark sunglasses over his eyes. “Do you remember when the RAF started to refuse matches whenever Eskel was at home?”</p><p>“Mm. Lots of injuries that miraculously healed whenever we went on another tour. Navy was always good for a game though.” Geralt looked up and tilted his head to the side; Eskel was laughing as his passengers continued to try and bring him to the floor. It was a beautiful sight, and Geralt’s own lips perked up. </p><p>“Uncle Geralt, c’mon! Help us.” Mason called as he tried to yank at Eskel’s knee.</p><p>“Yeah, dad, help! This is just stupid - ,” Ciri squeaked as Eskel raised his arm and her feet left the floor, “- do I weigh <em> nothing </em> to you?” She glowered at her uncle, who only raised a brow and passed the Rugby ball across to his other hand.</p><p>Geralt heaved a sigh and rolled out of his chair to swagger over sedately. As he stood before Eskel, he pulled his sunglasses off, folded the arms down and tucked them into the v-neck of his t-shirt, hands planted on his hips, head tilted. Eskel raised an eyebrow, “Forgot how to play, wolf? I’d suggest taking more of a run up.” </p><p>“Took eighteen years of a run up.” Geralt murmured, and then leaned in for a kiss. That morning they had told Ciri, answered her questions; she’d ended the conversation with an exasperated sigh, and, ‘well, it’s about time’, then continued to play with Roach. Jaskier had laughed, Eskel and Geralt had looked completely flabbergasted. Her perceptiveness, her easy acceptance, yet more evidence that the younger generations were the better future mankind deserved.</p><p>The kiss had the desired effect. Eskel went weak at the knees and faltered; Geralt plucked the Rugby ball from his hand and left him to stagger and slump onto the floor under the weight of his limpets. Ciri and Jaskier sat victoriously on his chest, while Mason took the ball from Geralt and ran down to the end of the garden; Roach followed him, barking ecstatically, to mark the try (obviously). Aiden detached himself and inspected the grass stains on the sides of his shorts.</p><p>“Ref! That’s got to be a yellow at least!” Eskel growled from the lawn, arms sprawled out. </p><p>Zoe piped up from the side, patting her linesman - Roach - on the head. Virtute was keeping careful watch on the try line from beneath a large mulberry bush, so she was the de facto TMO. “Yeah, kisses are gross, ten minutes in the sin bin. No ice cream.” Lambert laughed as Geralt slumped, pretending to be dejected, and walked back into the shade to occupy his chair again. </p><p>“Right. Food’s up. Get to the table!” Lambert put his J2O to the side and began filling up the serving platters. Within ten minutes, everyone was crowded on various pieces of garden furniture - Aiden needed to invest in a bigger table at some point - with piles of meat, bread and <em> some </em> salad. Mainly because Lambert insisted that Mason and Zoe eat <em> something </em> green if they were going to get a look-in for dessert.</p><p>“Lambert, you alright?” Eskel leaned closer, voice low. Lambert was gazing around with wide glistening eyes, his expression openly soft, and he hadn’t touched any of the food on his plate yet.</p><p>Lambert sniffed. “Oh, yeah, yeah, fine,” he grabbed his fork. “Just… never thought I’d - never thought <em> we </em> would have this kind of stuff again, you know? Like we didn’t deserve it, or were too broken, or some shit.” His voice quiet enough for young ears not to pick up on his language; he glanced across just to make sure. “And watching you with all the kids. We nearly lost that too. If you weren’t such a soppy git, we would’ve been too late. That fuckin’ war nearly took my entire family away. I just - sometimes, I just need to look, and… be sure it’s all real.” </p><p>Eskel rubbed the back of his shoulder. “You know something’s broken when we get freaked out by normality.”</p><p>“Mm.” Lambert was momentarily distracted as Mason tried to slip down from the table and raised an eyebrow at him. Mason returned to his chair with a grumpy frown, but was soon occupied by Ciri. She was in secondary school and, although she was a <em>girl,</em> she had the inside track on things like TikTok and influencers; he was all ears. Lambert turned back to Eskel, “Like the souvlaki on the kebabs?”</p><p>“Yeah. Just like mum used to make.” Eskel grinned, and Lambert lifted his hand for a pretend mic drop before tucking into his potato salad.</p><p>They lit the fire pit in the middle of the garden as the sun set and the insects began to emerge. Exhausted by a day spent running around in the heat, it didn’t take long for all the children, Ciri included, to fall asleep on the blankets. Lambert plucked his two miniatures from the floor, and Geralt scooped his gangly teen into his arms. Ciri and Zoe were tucked up in Aiden’s room and Mason was given the spare bed. Lambert changed Zoe into her Moana PJs in the bathroom before tucking her in. Because she was now a young woman, Geralt didn’t change Ciri while she was asleep, but pulled her pyjamas out of her suitcase and placed them over the back of the chair for her in case she woke during the night and wanted to change. The realisation choked him a bit, and he descended the stairs feeling slightly... <em>emotional.</em></p><p>Mason stirred as Lambert tucked him in. “Dad…”</p><p>“What’s up, bud?”</p><p>“I want to do this more.” He mumbled, and Lambert sat down on the edge of the bed.</p><p>“Yeah. Definitely.” <em> Thank fucking Christ, God, the devil, Vishnu, or whoever the fuck was on Lambert’s side today. He promised to never swear again, or whatever the fuck they wanted. </em>The tightness in his chest that had been there since he’d picked them up dissipated. </p><p>And then there was a sniffle. Tears. “But I won’t be able to when I start secondary school.” <em> Alarm bells. </em></p><p>“Hey, c’mon. You’re never too cool to hang out with family - .”</p><p>“I know, but - ,” Mason tried to bury his face away, but Lambert wasn’t having it and tugged the duvet down. “Alan said I’m going to a school away from home. Like far away. That I’ll have to stay there, and it’ll turn me into a real man, and - .” He was crying openly now, and Lambert gazed down into the same brown eyes he saw in the mirror every single day.</p><p>“No, Mason,” he swallowed to keep his voice level. “That won’t be happening.”</p><p>“You promise?” Another sniffle as small hands - hands that would soon start to grow as his son became a man - rubbed at his tear-streaked cheeks. Lambert rubbed a hand through his scruffy mop of hair and put their foreheads together.</p><p>“I promise. You’ll go to whatever school you choose. And we’ll see each other as much as you want, alright? Things are different now. We - I’m - .”</p><p>“You came back from Afghanistan,” Mason murmured and threw his arms around Lambert’s shoulders. “Mum said you would one day.”</p><p>***</p><p>Lambert held his son until he fell asleep, and then a bit longer because the tears were still falling silently from his own eyes. Once he’d tucked him up in bed, he found Aiden in the kitchen. “Ahh, are they comfo - ? Lambert, what’s wrong?” Aiden put the pint glass he’d been filling down on the kitchen counter and pulled Lambert’s head to his shoulder. “Easy. Did they say something, or - ?”</p><p>“I’m fine, it’s - ,” Lambert pulled back and scrubbed irritably at his eyes. <em> For fuck’s sake, </em> thirty years and his emotions were coming through <em> now? </em>He cleared his throat and grabbed himself a glass. “What’s the law on sending kids away to boarding school? Can they do that without my consent?”</p><p>Aiden looked briefly staggered. “Are you serious?” He saw the desolate look and waded through the several beers he’d enjoyed to find the appropriate statute in his head. “Umm, under Section 576 of the Education Act of ‘96, anyone who is defined as a parent, and thus having parental responsibility, has rights to oversight of the child’s education.  Hey, hey - look at me -,” Aiden tilted Lambert’s chin up, “- if he doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t go. I’ll contact the team in the morning and notify them of the development, alright?” He yanked Lambert back into an embrace until the tension eased. “I won’t let them take your babies away, I promise.”</p><p>“I love you, Aiden.” </p><p>“Mm,” Aiden turned his face into Lambert’s neck and placed a kiss at the very start of the bristles in the lead up to his jaw. “Come on. They brought your guitar. If you play softly, it won’t disturb the children.” Once Lambert’s eyes were clear, Aiden hauled him out into the garden; Eskel, Geralt and Jaskier toasted him with bottles of beer.</p><p>“Compliments to the chef,” Eskel rumbled from the otherside of the fire; he was sprawled low in the chair. Thankfully they’d brought their bivvies with them, which meant a nice, warm night under the stars. The chair was comfortable enough and Eskel had resigned himself to sleeping there when he fell unconscious. Or maybe squashed between Geralt and Jaskier if they kept looking <em> that good. </em>“I don’t feel the least bit poisoned.”</p><p>“When have I <em> ever </em> poisoned you, Care Bear?”</p><p>Geralt hummed. “There was that one time in Guatemala.”</p><p>“That’s what you get for buying meat from a market selling live and dead animals side by side, isn’t it, Geralt?” Lambert threw back and pulled the guitar across his lap. “Now, Aiden said you soppy fucks wanted to sing kumbaya.”</p><p>Jaskier grinned. “Oh, please. That would literally make my life.”</p><p>“Alright, here’s Wonderwall - ,” Lambert struck the first chord and then smirked at the combined groan of agony that circled the fire;<em> no one </em> was drunk enough for that. “Well, c’mon. What?”</p><p>“That one I heard you practicing before you went on your break,” Jaskier leaned forward and propped his beer between his legs. “Yeah - I heard you - go on, he should hear it.” </p><p>Lambert side-eyed Aiden, grateful that his flush was camouflaged by the fire pit. “Right.” He pointed at Eskel and Geralt. “If you fuckers laugh, I will brain you with this guitar.”</p><p>Geralt held up his hands. “You’ve always said I’m a humourless prick, so you’ll hear no laughter from me.” Eskel tilted his head forward in acknowledgement; no mocking.</p><p>Lambert cleared his throat and set his fingers for the first few notes, <em>“Would you help me to find a new way? -</em></p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Would you guide me through all this again?<br/>
Don’t let me slip away, I need you here ‘til the very end.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>So stay here with me,<br/>
There’s so much love in your smile when I look at your face,<br/>
And I’m here to stay, you’re my first and my last love,<br/>
And you’re my escape.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> So tell me you’ll be right here with me,<br/>
Hearing your voice is like hearing an angel sing,<br/>
Through the good and bad and all in between,<br/>
You’re the one I want and the one I need, and I know - </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Eskel glanced across to Geralt who was listening with his eyes closed, and then to Jaskier, who was <em> watching </em> Lambert intently, wide eyes brimming with tears. Eskel ruffled a hand through tousled brown hair; Jaskier leaned against his palm and sniffed quietly, because Aiden was holding his beer <em> very </em> tightly as Lambert continued, his expression awed.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>You taught me to live each day,<br/>
To live each day like it’s my last.<br/>
I won’t make you turn away,<br/>
So come with me and never look back,<br/>
After all that we’ve been through,<br/>
You are still by my side and I’m grateful you’re there and I - I love you,<br/>
You’re my best friend and I want you to know I care - “</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Lambert played through a few more stylised versions of the chorus, and then struck the final chord. It took all of four seconds for Aiden to yank the instrument from his lap and tackle him to the ground for a <em> feral </em> kiss. Geralt huffed a sigh, “I’ll get the bivvies out the car.”</p><p>***</p><p>Aiden and Lambert took Keira to court. She didn’t stand a chance. As soon as the judge realised she’d been systematically denying Lambert his access rights, she was at the mercy of Aiden’s team of solicitors.</p><p>Both Zoe and Mason wanted to see their dad every week, so on Thursdays he picked them up from school and they had dinner together. He also got every other weekend and they phoned him if they wanted to spend extra time with him during half term. </p><p>Aiden negotiated more reasonable child support demands that left Lambert with money for himself, and then set about talking him into looking for better paying work befitting his skillset. With two engineering degrees, he was worth so much more than a mechanic at the Autocentre. It took some convincing.</p><p>Mason didn’t get signed up for boarding school and as he headed into his final year of primary, he selected a mixed secondary close to his dad’s house so he could walk there to play on the PS4, and mess around with Aiden’s BMW at Lambert's side.</p><p>He wanted to be an engineer like his dad.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"My Escape" by Ravenscode.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Remembrance Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Summer went by in a hazy bliss of sunbathing, excursions to national heritage sites and lazy evenings sprawled out across the laps of two very handsome men. Jaskier almost forgot he had some major life decisions to consider. Without his father’s funds, he now had to rely completely on the Student Loans’ Company, which <em> would not </em> pay out for another three years if he decided to change his degree. His choice was: continue with politics and international relations, or drop out and try to make something of himself through other means. <em> Music. It would be music. </em> There were precious few weeks of the break left, but Jaskier was still no closer to making a decision. Instead, he threw himself into his essay for Eskel. Realistically, he didn’t have to do it, but he <em> wanted </em> to. His word <em> meant </em> something, and he had given it to Eskel all those months ago. Besides, the subject matter was becoming a bit of a raison d’etre; an exposé on the lives of veterans when the ‘hero’ rhetoric faded and they were left with just their scars. </p><p>In the penultimate week of August, they helped Lambert move in with Aiden; he barely had any belongings at all, so it only took one full car trip, but helping meant a barbecue reward, so who could say no? As Eskel and Lambert shared a quiet moment by the grill, Lambert finally vocalised a niggling anxiety in the back of his head. “Don’t turn my room into a sex dungeon or anything, alright?”</p><p>“A sex dungeon,” Eskel repeated, head tilted as if he were considering it, before punching Lambert lightly on the arm. “Room’s always there for you. I doubt you’ll ever need it again though.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, I still pinch myself in the morning when I wake up next to him. I had a nightmare last week and I expected him to just kick me to the curb,” Lambert flipped a burger. “Never put your dick in crazy, right?”</p><p>“What did he do?” </p><p>“Got tea, the fleece blanket and - ,” he cast a sideways glance at Eskel - <em> no, Care Bear wouldn’t mock him for this - </em> and then continued, “ - just held me, y’know? It was… I was surprised.”</p><p>“I’m not. He’s a bit of a dark horse, but he clearly loves you.”</p><p>“I think he was dropped on his head as a baby. It’s the only explanation.” Geralt rumbled as he walked out the kitchen with a fresh beer.</p><p>“Bit like you then, fluffykins. Don’t fall in love with me.” Lambert flashed him a middle finger and then turned back to grilling; Eskel left him to it and went to cast a shadow over a shirtless Jaskier, who threw a flip flop at him for blocking out his sun worship.</p><p>Autumn snuck into summer’s place in the blink of an eye, and with it the end of season storms to mark the darker nights. Jaskier found himself squashed on the sofa with his two lovers, Roach across his lap, as the rain lashed the windows and the thunder roared. It started discreetly; Eskel abandoning his piano to read close to Jaskier’s side, and Geralt closing his job applications to flank the other. Storms were too close to the rumble of war. Eskel was unsettled, but Geralt physically flinched. Jaskier allowed them their pride by not pointing out their discomfort; he still pulled each set of broad shoulders close, and their nights ended curled around each other, with several layers of blankets piled over the top. </p><p>The term started. Jaskier decided to <em> continue. </em> Finish the degree. Then plot the rest of his life. It helped that Eskel resumed his PhD and they could drive in together; lunch-times were spent with Triss, and he spent any gaps in his timetable in Eskel’s office on the sofa while his lover worked. This was the new him. Keep your word, work hard and commit. Just a few of the lessons Eskel had taught him. Determined to pay his way, Jaskier began picking up more gigs in local pubs and venues. They paid <em> alright</em>, but they weren’t going to sustain him long term. He needed something else. Something more. A possibility occurred to him as he watched his essay print. He grabbed it from the flat’s printer, gave it a quick proofread and then bounded over to Eskel, who was annotating a poem on the sofa.</p><p>“Done.”</p><p>Eskel looked up, perplexed. “Done what?”</p><p>“Your second essay.” Jaskier beamed and placed it down reverently over the top of the open book on Eskel’s lap. “As it’s unofficial, I’ll give you an extra week to get it marked and returned.”</p><p>“Second essa - ?” Eskel lifted it up, and then it dawned on him; Jaskier saw the realisation uncurl across his face in the form of a warm smile. “Your second essay. I’m - ,” he put his poem aside and read the title, “‘If these scars could speak’: an analysis of the systematic failure to care for veterans of conflict by the UK and her allies.”</p><p>“Geralt gave me the idea for the title. He said therapy was like having each of his scars torn open to see what they had to say,” Jaskier perched on the edge of the sofa. “I think I know what I want to do. With the rest of my life.”</p><p>“Travel the world singing about heroics and heartbreak, death and destiny.” Eskel murmured as he scanned through the first paragraph. This was almost long enough to be a dissertation. In fact, if it reached ten thousand words, then it <em> was </em> a dissertation. It even had references attached to the back and appendices with data.</p><p>“Hm. Almost,” Jaskier leaned back. “I want to prevent death and heartbreak. I’ve seen what it’s done to people I love, and suddenly the glamour of it has vanished, even the price of heroism seems a bit too steep. And I’ve never been a great believer in destiny. I still want to travel the world, and I <em> definitely </em> won’t stop singing, but I’m going to apply to MI5. Think that’s a good idea?”</p><p>“Well, you’ve failed at the first hurdle.” Eskel smirked.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You’re not meant to <em> tell </em> anyone you’re applying to MI5 or MI6,” he placed Jaskier’s essay on the coffee table. “SIS are a bit harsher on it than MI5 though. Operational officers from MI6 are a morose bunch. Geralt and I used to call them secret squirrels, because they’d hide information until the last bloody minute. Like it’d sustain them through the winter or something. That and they were flighty. First sign of trouble and they’d run up a proverbial tree.”</p><p>“So, you don’t think it’s a good idea. I mean, I’ve looked into the process. I know it’s rigorous, and I should apply soon, but - .”</p><p>“I think you will achieve anything you put your mind to,” Eskel pushed himself to his feet and headed towards the kitchen to make a cup of tea; he made a cup motion to Jaskier, who nodded the affirmative, “I just want you to do something that will make you happy. Don’t make your life decisions based on anyone else.” </p><p>“I’ve had my fill of that. I think I can make a difference this way. I can be on the front line, and I can try and make sure that no one ever has to suffer what you have. It's a lack of information. <em> Lack of communication. </em>Every time someone is grievously wounded. I just want to be useful. And I’ll have access to military records, right? So, I’ll be able to access lists of veterans and - .”</p><p>“You save the world types,” Eskel called over. “You never know when to take a day off, do you?”</p><p>Jaskier blinked in surprise, but before he could answer, Geralt returned. Roach was tucked under his arm as he closed the door behind him and chucked his keys onto the lamp table. As soon as she was placed down, her harness removed, she bounded towards Jaskier and took a flying leap into his arms. Eskel shook his head, “If you’re going to carry her everywhere, I’ll get you a handbag. How did it go?”</p><p>“She was tired,” Geralt murmured, shrugging his coat from his shoulders. “Fine. I can start on Monday.” None of the jobs that Geralt had been offered were to his liking, so he’d gone back to the farm where they’d spent the day with Ciri and asked whether they had any bottom level vacancies. It was perfect. He would spend most of the time in the company of animals rather than humans, Roach could come with him, and occasionally he could seek out social interaction to chip away at his discomfort around large crowds.</p><p>“That’s fantastic news, Geralt.” Jaskier beamed from the sofa as he managed to get Roach under control. “Try not to bring too many animals home, hm?”</p><p>“<em>No </em> animals.” Eskel glanced up. “Geralt, do you hear me? One is enough.”</p><p>“Mmhm.” Geralt pawed through the pile of mail which had arrived that morning, and focused in on one envelope in particular. It had a coat of arms in the top corner in addition to a stamp, and ‘Who Dares Wins’ written across the top. The letter was stock, with only his name and address changed, but the signature was genuine.</p><p>Eskel looked up. “What is it? You look like you’ve swallowed a wasp.”</p><p>“It’s an invitation.” </p><p><em> Forthcoming with the details as always, Geralt. </em>“To what?” Jaskier prompted.</p><p>“The remembrance parade in London. It’s a Wednesday this year, but they’re going to host it on the Sunday before. There’s another here for you.” He waved a closed envelope vaguely in Eskel’s direction. </p><p>“It arrives every year. Just bin it.”</p><p>Geralt blinked. “You never go?”</p><p>“Of <em> all </em> people, I would’ve thought you’d understand why.” Eskel grumbled as he finished pouring milk into the <em> three </em> cups of tea. A long period of silence followed, and Geralt continued to stare at the invitation. He didn’t move even when Eskel carried the cups over to the coffee table and sat back down.</p><p>“It’s about remembering, not celebrating. Remembering sacrifice is different to celebrating false, idealised heroism.” Geralt said finally, and carried both invitations over with him. He held Eskel’s in front of his face until he took it. “We should go.”</p><p>“Geralt, I probably don’t even <em> fit </em> in my uniform anymore. And I’ve forgot all drill commands. Gone. Completely.” Eskel opened the letter and ran his eyes over the Arial font critically.</p><p>“That’s a lie,” Geralt sat down next to Jaskier, who peered over his shoulder to examine the invite. “We’re going.”</p><p>“Are we? Is that an order, Captain?” </p><p>Geralt looked up, and Eskel was taken aback by the sudden flare of hurt in his eyes. When he spoke, his tone was… uncertain. “Not all of us came back from Afghanistan, Eskel. I just - I’d like to take a day to mark that properly. I haven’t visited his grave yet.” There was absolutely no question as to who he meant. Without a body, the marker in Brompton Cemetery and a small plaque in his hometown in Staffordshire were the only monuments to Vesemir’s sacrifice.</p><p>“I think it would be a good idea, Eskel,” Jaskier spoke quietly, a hand placed gently on his shoulder. “It’s the first Remembrance Day you’ve all been together. I’m assuming Lambert would have got the same invite?”</p><p>“He’s even less likely to go,” Eskel folded the paper and picked up his tea; he examined Geralt carefully over the top, while he continued to look at his letter. “I’ll see if I can convince him.”</p><p>***</p><p>“Come on you two! Aiden will be here in two minutes.” Jaskier paced impatiently by the kitchen counter and kept glancing up towards the mezzanine level. The entirety of the previous evening had been spent <em> polishing </em> and <em> ironing</em>. There couldn’t <em> possibly </em> be anything else they needed to prepare. Jaskier had chosen a smart, black suit with accompanying black tie and navy blue wool peacoat with military accents. It was simple, but elegant. Eskel’s door opened, and Jaskier looked up. “Oh my God, finall - y. <em> ” </em></p><p>
  <em> The wait was so totally worth it. </em>
</p><p>He’d seen Geralt in uniform before, but this one was different. They’d informed Jaskier that for this kind of thing they wore their 'No.2' ceremonial dress; Geralt had been in his 'No.1' before. There were lots, and <em> lots </em> of numbers for different occasions, and Jaskier had only vaguely followed their explanation. They still looked stunning. Green with dark piping, a black belt, silver and gold medals accompanied by its brocade, with golden badges on the epaulettes. The way the belt cinched in at their waist, with the flare of the lapels complementing the broadness of their chests. </p><p>Geralt looked good; Jaskier knew he would and had prepared himself for the majesty of it. <em>But Eskel.</em> <em>Ho - ly shit. </em>Jaskier had to gather his jaw, and maybe even a dribble of saliva, off the floor as they both approached him. His Bear was <em>big</em> in the chest and shoulders, but the uniform just emphasised it. All Jaskier wanted to do was hang off of him and never let go. His medals of valour buffed to a high shine, his hair neatened and combed into place; the warm, kindly English student was gone, replaced with this creature of raw masculinity and mouth-watering authority. “I know today is meant to be a sombre occasion,” Jaskier murmured, stepping out in front of them. “But I - well, I’m - those uniforms aren’t coming off until I’ve enjoyed them this evening. No caps?”</p><p>“Berets,” Eskel waved his beret - green, with the emblem of the SAS pinned on the front - and then headed to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. No.1 through 3 dress were stifling. </p><p>Remembrance Day was commemorated in London at the Cenotaph on Whitehall. The parade was extensive every year, with a collection of military and associated civilian personnel invited to march along behind the standard bearers and bands. The royals always attended following a short church service, which meant security would be tight. Aiden was going to park in the car park underneath his offices, which meant they only had a short walk to Buckingham Palace for the beginning of the parade. He arrived only three minutes later. Roach was in doggy daycare, which meant all that was left to do was set the alarm and lock up before heading out.</p><p>Lambert looked <em> unhappy.  </em></p><p>“Looking good.” Eskel murmured as he squashed himself into the backseat next to Jaskier. “Could’ve shaved though.”</p><p>“Bite me.” Lambert growled, fingers tightening around the beret held in his lap like it was a stressball. The <em> only </em> positive for him today was that Aiden was wearing one of his <em> very </em> nice three-pieces suits, replete with silk tie and pocket handkerchief, and he’d been promised he could enjoy it later. Everything else was <em> bullshit, </em> including this <em> fucking </em> uniform which he knew he should’ve <em> burned </em> upon arriving home all those years ago.</p><p>“Later, kitten.” Aiden winked, glanced over his shoulder and pulled out into the road. The drive was silent. Both Eskel and Geralt gazed out of opposite windows, lost in thought; Lambert continued to sulk, and Aiden was concentrating on driving, so Jaskier occupied himself in his own head. He remembered the two minutes silence at school. It was always a competition with his friends to see who could last the longest without laughing and then getting privileges removed. Things like this had always seemed so <em> distant </em> as a young person. What was the meaning of sacrifice when only ever viewed in black and white photographs? And yet, now Jaskier sat between two men who had almost given <em> everything, </em> he realised his teenage self was a fucking <em> asshole. </em> Remembrance Day wasn’t just about those that had fought at the beginning of the twentieth century; it was about every soldier, every veteran, that continued to fight and die today. And even if they came home, a part of them died on the battlefield anyway; it could be about remembering that lost part of them too. Remembrance Day was important. It should be marked properly.</p><p>They left Aiden’s BMW in his underground car park and walked the short distance to the assembly point outside Buckingham Palace. Aiden and Jaskier joined the civilian crowd behind the metal fences and watched their three soldiers walk towards those in matching uniforms. The parade hadn’t started yet, and they were instantly recognised; greeted with handshakes and some embraces. Even Lambert. These men were all retired; the enlisted were further up carrying rifles. Some of them were much older, others younger; one brayed in a loud, Welsh accent and limped across to Geralt to drag him into a hug that Geralt weathered with a pat to the back.</p><p>Half an hour of standing around followed before some officious individuals arrived in peaked caps and their subordinates quickly rallied into formation. Jaskier leaned over the railings and peered left and right; the parade seemed to go on for miles, with representatives from every branch of the military. In the middle were a cluster of elderly veterans, their chests adorned in copious medals that strained at the wool of their coats; some in wheelchairs, some clutching walking sticks, determined to do the march in memory of fallen comrades.</p><p>As sombre as the occasion was, Jaskier couldn’t help but exchange a glance with Aiden when drill commands were issued and Geralt, Eskel and Lambert suddenly snapped to attention. “Oh dear, this is going to be a very tough few hours.” Aiden murmured.</p><p>“Yes. Yes it is.” Jaskier croaked. <em> Think sad thoughts. Think sad thoughts. Think sad thoughts. </em> It was secondary school all over again, except he wasn’t fighting <em> laughter</em>, but something <em> far </em> more embarrassing. He could hear the band strike up and the distant drum of feet as the front of the parade took off. Aiden and Jaskier moved with the rest of the crowd, keeping their respective partners in the corner of their eye to <em> store </em> the memory of watching them perform drill commands. Of course, this was now happening <em> every </em> year, not that Geralt, Eskel and Lambert knew that. The walk to the Cenotaph wasn’t that far, but the service itself was nearly two hours long. </p><p>Jaskier and Aiden were kept away from the main parade ground as unvetted civilians, and so watched the ceremony on big screens from afar; they couldn’t pick out the green uniforms they were looking for, but as the clock struck eleven and a distant canon sounded from the Palace, the entire city fell silent for two minutes. </p><p>Suddenly the earlier mirth felt like a distant echo.</p><p>Jaskier thought of Geralt, Eskel and Lambert. He thought about their nightmares and their scars, both physical and mental. He thought about all the men and women he had read about during the research for his essay. Those that returned, those who only partially returned, and those that did not return at all. He thought about their pasts, their present and the futures that some had to try and forge, while others would never get the opportunity to; Lambert had nearly lost his future in the shape of his children, and Eskel had been prepared to throw his away because he could see nothing but darkness. Geralt had yet to decide. Jaskier was so lost in his reverie that when the canon sounded the second time, and the trumpets of the Last Post blared out through the speakers, he jumped. Aiden rested a hand on his shoulder with two eyebrows raised. He lifted a hand to wave him away; <em> I’m fine. </em></p><p>Prince Charles laid the first wreath, followed by his eldest son. Representatives from every military service, every government office, every civilian attachment, laid rings of red poppies around the Cenotaph. As the camera panned around official faces, Jaskier <em> finally </em> caught sight of the ones he was looking for. In a mere glimpse he saw their pain. As those circles of fabric poppies were placed to commemorate the war dead, one after the other upon white stone, their minds were drifting to the friends they had served with and lost. The friends that were still <em> out there </em> now, and Jaskier longed to break through the barrier and run to them. To give some comfort, because even the <em> small </em> things - the hugs, the kisses, the ‘I’m here if you need me’ - it all meant <em> something</em>. </p><p>The eternity of the service drew on, until finally the veterans began to march past the Cenotaph. As the senior rank in the parade, Geralt offered the salute at the corner while the others only turned their eyes. Aiden and Jaskier watched long enough for green uniforms to vanish from the television screens before muscling back through to meet them at the end of their circuit.</p><p>They met back up at the Palace again. Aiden hauled Lambert into an embrace, because he looked particularly drawn, and Jaskier placed a kiss on each of the sombre faces that greeted him. “I take it we’re heading straight home?”</p><p>“No,” Eskel murmured. “We have one more stop to make.”</p><p>***</p><p>Brompton Cemetery was beautiful. Eskel could think of no better place for Vesemir’s spirit to spend its time. In life, their commanding officer had been a keen gardener. With no living family to speak of, he’d dedicated the rest of his free time to charity work. A good soul. Even in the dreary autumn, the graves boasted flowers and colourful memorials to lost loved ones. The five of them walked along well-kept gravel paths beneath trees clinging to reddening leaves until they reached the far eastern end of the gravesite. </p><p>As there had been no body to bury, Vesemir’s plot was a small one. Aiden and Jaskier stood back while their three war heroes approached the small gravestone. Across the top was the SAS’s motto - Who Dares Wins - with ‘Andrew Vesemir’ written in small font beneath. They stood side-by-side; Eskel in the middle, Geralt and Lambert flanking him, with their hands clasped at their front.</p><p>“He always said he wouldn’t die in his bed.” Eskel murmured.</p><p>“I thought he was just being a morbid old fuck,” Lambert replied, his chin tilted down. “He was always a massive grouch, but I get it now.” The idealism Lambert had held as the youngest member of the team had been thoroughly thrashed out of him. Not just by the incident that had ended his career, or the airstrike, but by the entire fucking tour. The Middle East was a clusterfuck. The things he’d seen would’ve haunted him for life anyway. </p><p>“He deserved better,” Geralt said quietly. “He died a hero. But what does that actually mean? He’s your Happy Warrior, Eskel. Right down to his end. But no one will remember him - only us.”</p><p>Eskel rested a palm on Geralt’s back. “For Vesemir, that would be enough.” He extended that hand until his arm wrapped around Geralt’s shoulders and pulled him in, closely followed by Lambert on the other side. Neither of them resisted. They stood there in silence, gazing at the tombstone of their fallen commander, and remembered him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Oh Captain, My Captain (E)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The drive home was less subdued once they left the congestion zone. The grey of London mutated into the green of Hertfordshire, and eventually the slightly different green of Cambridgeshire. Aiden dropped them off on the estate, and they ruffled Lambert’s hair on the way out, much to his irritation. “Everything aches.” Geralt murmured as they walked through the front door, “I forgot how difficult it is to stand for two fucking hours.”</p><p>“And we were standing easy. I felt sorry for the palace guards.”</p><p>They both headed straight for the bedroom - clearly to change - but Jaskier had other ideas and followed them up. As they walked through the bedroom door, he pinched a handful of Eskel’s backside to give him the hint and received a raised eyebrow. <em> Oh really? </em>After a day standing in the cold, Eskel didn’t need convincing to get warm again. He walked up behind Geralt slowly, fingers brushing across his to gain his attention. When Geralt turned, Eskel took his own beret from his head, placed it over the right side of his chest and sank down onto his knees. “Oh Captain, my Captain.” </p><p>“Hm,” Geralt smiled. “You and your poems about dead heroes.” </p><p>Eskel’s eyes widened a touch. “You know - ?”</p><p>“Walt Whitman,” Geralt said - well, <em> purred</em>, because seeing Eskel on his knees was all the invitation he needed to get turned on. He slid his thumb across Eskel’s lower lip and then pushed it into his mouth; the pad slid across his tongue and teeth, pushing his jaw lower. “Written in 1865. About the death of Abraham Lincoln.” His other hand hitched up the hem of his jacket and tugged open the belt and fly of his trousers. Eskel’s eyes were <em> big </em> and he was beginning to pant. If there was one thing - and if Geralt was honest, there were actually a few things - that turned Eskel on, it was a bit of literature accompanied by a thick cock in his mouth. Geralt was happy to oblige. He slipped his prick free from his boxers; the brush of Eskel’s breath, hot and wet, was enough to stir him to full hardness, and he hummed in pleasure when Eskel began sucking on his head.</p><p>Jaskier watched with wide eyes, until Geralt summoned him over with a flick of the hand. <em> Who was he to question the Captain? </em>He staggered over and tilted his head for the kiss offered, his feet placed at the sides of Eskel’s calves. The noises coming up from below him were staggeringly delicious, and he gasped into Geralt’s lips when he felt Eskel paw at his belt and trousers. Callused fingers teased along his cock once it was tugged free of his boxers, and then Eskel’s mouth followed; the vibrations of his moans knotting in Jaskier’s groin. Geralt left him breathless, and he drew away to pant, blue eyes dropping immediately to admire Eskel working. His mouth moved between the two of them, tongue lapping across their slits and lips suckling on their heads with breathy sighs of enjoyment. Geralt ruffled his hair, ruining the neat comb until it was the messy, black mop he preferred, and then grabbed a handful. Eskel moaned in appreciation, and went limp as Geralt thrust his hips forwards, cock pressing down his throat. He gagged and drooled, but the flicker of his eyes betrayed his pleasure, and while one hand continued to work Jaskier over, Eskel gripped onto Geralt’s thigh to keep him in place. </p><p>“Good Bear,” Geralt growled, hips drawing back slowly and pushing forward with force as his fingers tightened. Eskel didn’t tap out, so he continued for another few thrusts before withdrawing. A long trail of saliva stretched between the head of his cock and Eskel’s tongue, and he pushed his thumb back into Eskel’s mouth to keep him still while he looked at Jaskier. “Eskel wants to fill you with both of us, little lark. Up for it?”</p><p>“At the same time?” Jaskier whispered.</p><p>“Yes,” Geralt gave Eskel a light tug and their bulwark of a lover rose from his knees, still with Geralt’ thumb in his mouth. “Think you can handle us?”</p><p>“I will die trying.” Jaskier began wrenching his clothes off, precome leaking onto his trousers before he could shove them down his thighs. He clambered onto the bed, and Geralt chucked the bottle of lube onto the mattress next to him. Jaskier didn’t need telling twice and squeezed a generous amount in his palm. Both watched him as he circled his fingers around his hole, and he spread his legs to give them a better view. <em> Shit, did he just hear tearing fabric? </em>Jaskier looked up quickly to see Eskel biting marks into Geralt’s neck as he tore at his uniform. The jacket was open, so it was the shirt that had suffered, partially torn from the collar in Eskel’s fervour to get it off.</p><p>Geralt groaned encouragement and chucked Eskel’s waist belt to the side, working off his tunic and yanking his tie free. Jaskier gasped as his body clenched with arousal, pressing his first finger inside to begin stretching himself open. He <em> knew </em> how much girth was awaiting him. It would take… more than four fingers. Difficult to think with the display of savage lust currently claiming pieces of uniform as collateral before him. Geralt forced Eskel’s head away from him, one palm braced across his throat so that he could suck kisses into his chest and across his collar bone while tugging his belt free; his own trousers and boxers were pushed irreverently from his hips. Eskel gripped Geralt’s waist as he was divested of the last few stitches, obeying the staying hand on his throat until he felt a firm fingers curl around his shaft, at which point he pushed forward to claim Geralt’s mouth as his again. </p><p>A soft moan from Jaskier drew them towards the bed, and Eskel bit Geralt’s lower lip before drawing away. He knelt between spread thighs and dropped a hand to stroke around Jaskier’s hole, fluttering across the digits already in there. With gentle insistence, he pushed two of his own in alongside, and held his lover as he arched. “Ahh, Eskel - it’s - it’s so much.”</p><p>“Hm, you’ve got a lot more to come, Jaskier. Breathe.”</p><p>“Oh - oh, ahh - ,” Jaskier huffed and then slowly his body yielded. He allowed Eskel to set the pace, moving his fingers alongside bigger ones until his entire pelvis tingled. “ - god, put your cock in me, please. I’m ready.” </p><p>Eskel sat back on the bed and pulled him on top. Jaskier braced his hands on the broad chest below him as he sank down onto Eskel’s huge cock. Even with his body relaxed, he felt the stretch. <em> Not going to fit a second - fuck. </em>Jaskier glanced over his shoulder, face already warped with pleasure as Eskel’s big hands moved his hips in a gentle rhythm. Geralt sat across Eskel’s thighs close behind, and Jaskier felt his fingers stroke down the tender flesh of his cleft to his rim. “Oh - Geralt, ahh - it - oh-oh-oh.” He arched his back as Geralt positioned him and then slid a finger in alongside Eskel, matching the rhythm and stretching outwards. It was slow, measured; they were taking their time, but Jaskier was certain he was going to come from this stimulation alone.</p><p>Two more fingers pressed inside and Jaskier keened, fingernails digging into the meat of Eskel’s chest as the rest of his body pulled taut with the pressure. When he felt the blunt head of Geralt's cock brush down his ass he gasped and leaned forward further. “Yes - yes, fuck yes.” Eskel lifted Jaskier’s hips and the next penetration nearly whited out Jaskier’s vision. He’d never felt so <em> full </em> in his entire life. It was like his body was about to split down the middle, and an incoherent babble of noise fell out of his mouth. “Ahh - oh, fuck - ahh, nffghghff - oh, oh.” Then Geralt started to <em> move </em> and there was no space for <em> air </em> in his body; the only sounds that escaped him were strangled, inhuman grunts and whimpers. Eskel held his hips still as Geralt thrust into him from behind, gradually working deeper until his hips were almost connecting with Jaskier’s ass.</p><p>Eskel pushed his head back into the pillow. The softness of Jaskier’s body juxtaposed with the hard, silky rub of Geralt’s cock was euphoric. Sweat gathered on his neck and chest as the two bodies over him warmed and shuddered. He kept his eyes open to watch Jaskier disintegrate over him, and the slack jawed pleasure of Geralt’s face was just as beguiling. One of Geralt’s hands latched onto Jaskier’s hip, so Eskel took their lark in hand and stroked his cock in time with Geralt’s thrusts. Jaskier let out another strangled whine, his entire body shaking, as the stimulation defied processing. He came with a desperate shout, and Eskel tilted his chin back as the resulting spend splashed over his chest towards the hollow of his throat. Jaskier’s entire body clenched up and Geralt grunted, managing only a few more thrusts before pulling out. </p><p>Their grip loosened, and Jaskier fell onto Eskel’s chest. Geralt shuffled forward until his cock was against Eskel’s again and then took them both in hand. He leaned over Jaskier’s back and began a quick, brutal rut that made them both moan. “Still going to fill you, little lark.” Geralt growled, and Jaskier nodded mutely against Eskel’s shoulder. “Need to say it - <em> say it </em>.”</p><p>“Yes,” Jaskier croaked, “Please. Fill me.”</p><p>Geralt could feel Eskel twitching in his hand and reached forward to take Jaskier’s hip. With Eskel’s help, he drew their lover back and impaled his gaping hole again. Jaskier cried out, spine arched, fingernails leaving crescent moons in Eskel’s chest, as Geralt thrust into him just three more times. The flood of wet heat and the pulse of Geralt across his cock pulled Eskel over the edge too, and he gripped bruises into Jaskier’s hips at the intensity of it. </p><p>Jaskier slumped when he was released. He could feel come dripping down across his balls, and whimpered when Gerat’s fingertips ran through it, teasing tender skin until it quivered. His ability to think, to speak, to move - all gone. He barely rallied enough brain power to remember to breathe, calmed by the stroke of Eskel’s hand up and down his back and the soft murmur of love in his ear. He felt Geralt press a kiss to the small of his back, and then a dip at the side of the bed as he left for some towels in the bathroom. </p><p>By the time he was vaguely sentient again, he blinked into a set of blue eyes watching him from over the expansive plane of Eskel’s chest. “Hey.”</p><p>“Hello,” Geralt murmured, head tilting back against Eskel’s shoulder. “Alright?”</p><p>“I think I’ll be able to feel my legs by tomorrow.” Jaskier whispered, and grinned when the big chest beneath them rumbled in amusement. “Love you.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt smiled, and nuzzled up into Eskel’s chin, but kept looking at Jaskier when he said it. “Love you too.”</p><p>***</p><p>The moment the front door closed behind him, Lambert felt a sense of relief. The crowds, the noise, the <em>emotional</em> <em>stress</em> of today had been <em>way</em> too fucking much. Shoes kicked off against the wall and socks dumped on top, he breathed a deep lungful of the light floral scents from the various reed diffusers scattered around the house - smells that he was beginning to associate with home and safety - before stomping upstairs. Aiden followed barely two steps behind and grabbed Lambert’s hand before it could lift to yank at his tie. “Ah ah, no. Put your beret back on.”</p><p>Lambert squinted. “What?”</p><p>“Please, humour me,” Aiden smiled in the bright, infectious way he always did to get his own way and Lambert yanked his beret out from underneath his epaulette to jam it on his head with a sigh. “I want you to strip. Properly. I’ve been thinking about it all day. Even when Charles was laying the wreath, very unpatriotic of me, I know. When you all saluted, Jaskier and I nearly had to jump in the fountain to cool off.”</p><p>“You want me to <em> strip </em>? Who do I look like? Magic - fucking - Mike?” </p><p>“Yes. To music. And then I want you to ride me with that beret on,” Aiden placed a chaste kiss on Lambert’s lips, but before he could escape back to the bed, Lambert took him by the wrist. He ran his fingers over the buttons of Aiden’s waistcoat to his belt, pausing only briefly before pressing a palm to the already impressive bulge filling the front of his slacks. Aiden pushed into the contact and cupped Lambert’s jaw, “Want me to keep it on?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Lambert swallowed thickly. “Please.” The thought of being naked while riding Aiden in his posh suit which cost hundreds of pounds, gripping handfuls of the plush jacket, feeling the expensive wool of the trousers underneath his thighs and having its wearer bite marks down the side of his neck and across his shoulders. Couldn’t explain it. He’d never eyed businessmen before and felt the urge to mount them, so the only explanation was Aiden himself. He exuded a presence in his finery that made Lambert weak. It was everything together. The dashing smile, the tousled hair, the way he <em> looked </em> at Lambert like he was solid fucking gold. <em> Yeah. Aiden in a suit was Lambert’s catnip.  </em></p><p>“Alright then, kitten.” Aiden grabbed the remote for the radio perched on top of the dresser and clicked it on. <em> Step inside, walk this way, you and me babe, hey hey! </em> </p><p>“Are you shittin’ me with Def Leppard right now?” His reply was a flutter of the hand as Aiden paused to grab the bottle of lube from the bedside table, then sat down on the edge of the bed and tilted his head expectantly. <em> Oh the shit I do for this man. </em> Lambert took a deep breath and swallowed his embarrassment. <em> Love is like a bomb, baby, c'mon get it on, livin' like a lover with a radar phone, lookin' like a tramp, like a video vamp, demolition woman, can I be your man? </em> His fingers slid through the belt on the outside of his tunic and unhooked it slowly, allowing the material to whisper across the wool before he opened his hand and dropped it to the floor. It took him all of about thirty seconds to get into the project, and his shoulders as he swayed as he picked open the silver buttons, heel stomping with the bass drum. He turned sideways and rolled his hips as it slid down from his shoulders, landing on the floor with a clatter of metal adornments. </p><p><em>Razzle 'n' a dazzle 'n' a flash a little light, television lover, baby, go all night, sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet, little miss ah innocent sugar me, yeah, yeah - </em>he undid the knot of his tie and coiled one end around his fist as he stood across Aiden’s lap and hooked it behind his neck to draw him close, the ripple that passed down from his shoulders to his hips bringing his still clothed torso within millimeters of Aiden’s lips. <em>So c'mon, take a bottle, shake it up, break the bubble, break it up.</em> He left it draped around his lover's neck and backtracked, shimmying as he picked each of his shirt buttons free. Waiting for the chorus, there it was - </p><p><em> Pour some sugar on me, ooh, in the name of love, pour some sugar on me, c'mon, fire me up, pour your sugar on me, I can't get enough. </em> Another of those delicious little rolls of the torso as he tore through the last few and dropped his shirt from his shoulders to hook in his elbows. He ran his palm, fingers splayed, the full length of his naked chest and abdomen until it gripped the line of his erection. Aiden’s lips were parted and his eyes wide, Lambert could see the heat rising on his neck; he was so composed usually. This was a whole new level of power. The shirt dropped free as he straightened his arms and turned his back, hands gripping the buckle of his belt. Time to be <em> really </em> fucking cheeky. </p><p><em>I'm hot, sticky sweet, from my head to my feet, yeah, listen! Red light, yellow light, green-a-light go! Crazy little woman in a one man show, mirror queen, mannequin, rhythm of love, sweet dream, saccharine, loosen up, loosen up -</em> Lambert shimmied backwards and bent over, legs parted either side of Aiden’s thighs, ass rolling a hair’s breadth from Aiden’s chest, spine arched. As soon as he felt the whisper of fingers he pulled away and swivelled, one finger raised in reproach. The dark look he received told him he was going to pay for that later. Oh <em>fuck</em> was he looking forward to it. He undid his belt slowly and rocked his hips again as he drew it out of the loops of his trousers; buckle in one hand, lead in the other, he turned again and ran the leather behind his shoulders and down the flexing muscles of his back. <em>Was Aiden panting? </em>A quick glance over his shoulder. <em>Definitely looked ruffled. </em>The belt clattered to the floor.</p><p><em> How long was this fucking song? </em> Def Leppard. Endless. <em> You gotta squeeze a little, squeeze a little, tease a little more, easy operator come a knockin' on my door, sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet, little miss innocent sugar me, yeah, yeah, give a little more. </em> Button and fly popped open, he slid his fingers around his hips beneath the waistband and then pushed his hands over the curves of his ass, another little roll of the hips, before he allowed the trousers to slip down his thighs. Taking pants off sexily was not in his repertoire, but he could definitely think of <em> someone </em> who would do it for him. Aiden had disposed of his belt, unbuttoned his trousers and pulled his cock free; he beckoned Lambert over.</p><p><em> Pour some sugar on me, ooh, in the name of love, pour some sugar on me, c'mon, fire me up, pour your sugar on me, I can't get enough. </em> Lambert backed up, glancing over his shoulder with a shit-eating grin that Aiden was going to wipe straight off his face momentarily. Aiden hooked his thumbs through the waistband at Lambert’s hips and tugged his boxers down; the soft material caught on his cock and it hit Lambert's stomach when it finally broke free, but he resisted the urge to touch himself just yet. As he shoved Lambert’s underwear past his knees, Aiden forced him to bend over, slicked some lube on his fingers and rubbed two around his rim. With his hands now braced just above his knees, Aiden had perfect access, and immediately pushed the middle finger inside, pad pushing down as it slipped in and out in full strokes. There was no better sight than Lambert’s tight, toned ass sucking greedily on Aiden’s fingers, his puckered hole clenching at the intrusion even as they withdrew - well, apart from when it was Aiden’s cock instead. The angle was perfect to find Lambert’s prostate and his lover rocked back eagerly into the pressure.</p><p>The music faded into the background even though the volume hadn’t changed. The only sounds that interested Aiden were the breathy moans and choked gasps he was coaxing from Lambert as he pressed a second, and then a third finger inside him. His thighs were quivering with the effort of standing; he couldn’t bite back the desperate whine as the stimulation stopped though. Aiden took his hip in one hand and held his cock steady with the other as Lambert lowered himself backwards, thighs splayed across Aiden’s lap. It was a lot to take, Aiden knew, but Lambert sank down to the hilt with a desperate whimper of awe. He liked to grind at first, because the feeling of fullness and incessant pressure on his prostate drove him crazy; Aiden fell onto his back to give Lambert the room to gyrate and flex, thumbs pushing into the firm globes of his ass.</p><p>With muscled thighs and that impressive core, Lambert soon set an energetic rhythm, bouncing on Aiden’s cock with his head tilted back in ecstasy.  One hand braced on Aiden’s knee while the other pumped his own prick in time. “Ahh-ahh, mmm, Aiden, <em> Aiden. </em>” Desperate entreaties as he leaned forward more and rocked in a different motion, hips rotating in agile rolls, that made Aiden see stars as the pressures changed. </p><p>“Lambert, give me your arms - weight forward on the balls of your feet.” Aiden gasped out his instructions and latched onto Lambert’s forearms when they were held backwards. With Lambert’s weight forward and balanced, Aiden used his arms as leverage to thrust up into him from the bed, punishing his prostate at a swift, brutal pace. It was intense and Lambert panted soft cries over the next track on the playlist. <em> Love Bites. </em>Huh.</p><p>“Aiden, p - please, want to - ,” Lambert tugged at his arms, and after a few more thrusts pulled away to change positions. He turned and mounted Aiden facing him, reaching between his own thighs to guide Aiden’s cock back to his hole. His fingers bunched in that expensive waistcoat as he ground down again, and this time it was Aiden’s hand that wrapped his cock. “Oh, <em> fuck, </em> yeah, yeah, <em> yeah. </em> ” Lambert tilted his head back - <em> how the fuck his beret was still in place, he had no fucking idea - </em> and picked up the rhythm until he his thighs were cramping and his lungs felt incapable of supplying enough air. He felt Aiden jerk, and then his hands latched on as he came. Lambert rode him through it, watching with lidded eyes as his lover arched into the bed. <em> Fuck, should strip more often if it was gonna’ get him this worked up. </em> The <em> devastation </em> he’d wrought was the final little nudge, and with his own palm wrapped around his shaft, Lambert came on that expensive waistcoat, lower lip between his teeth. <em> Ahh, yeah, that’s why he liked it.  </em></p><p>“Fuck,” Aiden lifted his head, looked down at his Armani suit with a wry smirk, and then the green beret, with its SAS emblem on the front, before slumping back again. “God save the queen.”</p><p>Lambert laughed. “Mate, I’m sure this isn’t even the worst time she’s been name dropped.” And he saluted with Aiden’s cock still buried in his ass. It was lowkey the funniest thing Aiden had ever seen in his life.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Lambert strips to "Pour Some Sugar On Me" by Def Leppard.</p><p>Thanks for reading folks. Your comments have been so amazing to read. This was meant to be a little side project to get something off my chest, but I'm quite proud about how it turned out.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Wolf Team Two Zero [Fanart - SFW]</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A piece of work completed by the brilliant Sayuri527.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>